Sunday morning.
Eating her food,
Drinking her coffee

While she sleeps in. I
Miss her through the
Door, but a

Lady is entitled to her peace.
Last night I
Think I fell

Ever so slightly deeper
In trouble when
She, with the assertiveness

Of a woman aware
Of her own
Loveability,

Ran her fingers through
My beard; taking all
The time she wanted

To whisper: *"I really,
Really like
You."

And when the frost bite bit him,
it stung.
It latched on to his tongue,

razor sharp teeth digging into
the fleshy muscle.  Crawled
to the back of the mouth and in
one desperate swallow, fell down
into the pits of the digestive system where
the intestines did their best to burn it out.
But such a cold is freezing to the point of fire
and leaves the heat of the insides
steaming and then terminally frozen.

Such a timid shiver is now the bottomless cold
living inside him.
And when the frost bite bit him,
it liked the taste and never left.

Gazing warmly at a freshly set pearl necklace
The source for which was wholly reckless
A girl sheds tears of convoluted joy
Wondering if she’s just a manipulated toy
A body, gift-wrapped and sold
For no more than half her weight in gold
The new in search of old
Grasping at a material hold

…

Passive thoughts draw him away from the hummer
He was gifted in pursuit of slumber
Light breaking in through a window pane
Illuminates developmental strain
The man pounds back a bottle, or, what little remained
A bit trickled down, leaving his shirt stained
Looks over to see a girl ashamed
Of all within her which had so recently changed

…

He wasn’t handsome, but the girl didn’t mind
Through gifts, he showed himself to be overly kind
The man was a bit heavy set
But that didn’t stop her from getting wet
Innocence, a forgotten trait
Her consciousness told it straight.
But the action bared no weight
It was just a simple twist of fate

…

Age cripples all who care
Leading youthful eyes to wander and stare
Desperation hunts with the worst of intent
For a youthful soul in search of dissent
It lasts as long as it can
Which isn’t, truthfully, a long span
He leaves a concrete man
While the girl’s just a flash in the pan
…

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.