A Little Humour, Regret and Verse

Mothers Being Mothers

One fine morn’, when the sun was up
And the sky shone a darling blue,
I swallowed the porridge that she’d made,
And gathering my wits I said
“You know very well, I love you mother
But you are a terrible cook!

She rubbed her chin, set down her book,
And she gave me a narrow look
“You know son, it could have been worse,
Like you and your sense of verse
Or all of your girlfriends, you rave about
All of them that I have never seen.”
Too mean, mother, too mean!


My lover and I in Real Life

As the party drew to a close
And we prepared for bed,
My lover kissed me,
Took my hand and said,
“Who was that darling,
You were talking to?”
“Bring me her head!”


The Occasional Romantic

You, the solitary lighthouse, in the tempest
The crack of dawn, a broken darkness
The glass window, to the night sky
The forbidden stars, that we trace

You, the first fallen leaf of autumn
Withered flowers dancing at your feet,
Lost in the blinding city lights,
The fading memories that we forfeit

You, the book of secrets, lying in the dust,
The scent of rain, like images that flash past,
The first flutter, broken hearts, learning how to beat
On the wooden dance floor, the tap of our feet

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