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Lizzie Sep 2021
Do diddly dum dee do
Diddly dum dee dee
Do diddly dum dee do
Diddly duddly dee

I saw a man
And he was handsome
Handsome as can be
And so I says to meself
I'd like that man for me
Diddly dum di di
I'll take that man for me.

But that man,
Alas, was taken
Taken as can be
And so I thinks to meself
If only he were free
Diddly dum di di
I'll make that man be free

Do diddly dum dee do
Diddly dum dee dee
Do diddly dum dee do
Diddly duddly dee

So I finds
His ain woman,
A lassie fair and sweet,
Grab her by her flaxen locks
And bind her pretty feet
Diddly dum di di
I bound her pretty feet.

But that lass
Alas, was young
A maid of just sixteen
She says, "I ne'er had no kiss
Won't ye have some mercy?"
Diddly dum di di
"Please have ye some mercy!"

Do diddly ... etc.

Me unloved heart
Was touched right then
And so I looked at she
Kissed her gently on th' cheek
And threw her in the sea
Diddly dum di di
I threw her in the sea.

The man I loved
When he heard
Of me awful deed
Swore to **** me the same way
Me death was his new creed.
Diddly dum di di
Me death was his sworn creed.

Do diddly... etc.

So when he seized
Me wild hair
And bound me to the knees
I said to him, "Do not forget
Tha kiss ye owe to me"
Diddly dum di di
"Tha kiss ye owe to me."

He leaned in close
His lips near main
And looked me in th' ee
He whispered then, "Ye go to hell"
And threw me in the sea
Diddly dum dee dee
He threw me in the sea.

Do diddly dum dee do
Diddly dum dee dee
Do diddly dum dee do
Diddly duddly dee.

A tousand years
I've burnt in hell
A tousand more I'll need
But with me love by me side
I won't regret me deed.
Do diddly dum dee dee
I won't regret me deed.
Lizzie Sep 2021
I'm struggling to stay awake
Even as I write this verse
For my body is drugged with food
And tired since I'm sleeping worse
Than I usually do. And so
Like iron gates, my weary eyes
Fall fast, thus locking in
My consciousness. No goodbyes
Were said--there was no time.
What, then, is the point of learning
If it never happens due to
How little sleep I've been earning?

It's my own fault. Who is to blame
When I over indulge, with no sight
To how I'll feel the following day
After staying up so late at night?
Who is to blame when I watch
The time waste and still ignore
What is a constant reminder
Of our death? And so I'll ask no more.
Lizzie Sep 2021
We stay awake, but for what?
It's easy to count loss of sleep
When it's time to wake, but
Before bed, we somehow keep
Forgetting the time. It it because
You hope for satisfaction--maybe
In the kisses we share? Or I
In hopes that you'll talk with me?
Either way, time is wasted
To our selfish love--or is it lust?
Like Augustine, we say yes to both.
Or maybe it's just me, who must
Think that "love" will justify
Anything, or at least pardon that
Which we should not do. But
Feeling good, regardless of what
Love may exist, is still wrong
When indulged too much. And so
"It was our bad habit to carry on
Our games till very late." We know
That "the caresses by which the
Lustful ****** are seeking for love;
But nothing is more caressing than
God's charity." Yet we still think of
Mortal caresses, which we can
Hardly go a night without. If I
Did not touch and kiss you today,
Would you be hurt, and if so, why?
"Why, really?"
Written awhile ago but lost among class notes.
Lizzie Sep 2021
Here am I again at something
That can't be done. Ever we strive
For perfection, all in vain,
Failing again, yet again,
As long as we are alive.
What could I say, but say again,
As all that could be
Has been already?
How can I hope to seize
The turbulence inside of me,
And tame my wild sea?
Or should I say the sea is yours?
In those grey-blue eyes
A morning shore lies,
But unlike mine, it's calm.
Your touch is a breeze--a balm
To all my wearied faces
And my mind which ever braces
Against endless stress.
I'm a mess.
And you're so hot,
And now I find
I've got a mind
To hit you for cutting me.
You always look sharp, I mean.
And if you don't one day,
I'd hit on you anyway.

Where am I going with this?
I've given over to comedy
And lost my lyrical end.
Yes, something said truly
Is often hid in humor,
But I wouldn't want to send
Such a choppy peice as this.
Lizzie Sep 2021
A morning shore, my lover's eyes
Drift into the morning skies,
And honey clouds above his face
Swirl ever round with wild grace.
A gentle touch upon his hand
Reveals the treasures in his sand.
Thus beaming with a wond'rous glow,
Is the gorgeous smile I know.

Lest his surf and sea and sky
Be lost in the ebbing tide,
He built a fortress strong as stone,
The outer walls of his bone.
(Unless there was some higher art
That formed his body and his heart--
God's handiwork at its best
For his gentle soul to rest).

Of handiwork, the best creation:
His hands at work! My adoration
Is great for those, which enduring
Winter snow and summer pouring,
Were weathered like white oakwood.
And while his handsome hands could
Wrestle (and so hard they toiled!),
Their touch never could be spoiled.

Their touch speaks of so much more
Than all the waves that hug the shore,
Than all the winding prints of feet,
Than all the gentle winds that greet
The sunshine caught among the boughs,
Than all the swirling sand in rows,
Than all the shells the bright beach wore--
Their touch speaks of so much more.

My lover's glance, and all his looks,
Are worthy of a hundred books,
Yet even such could not convey
How precious they are. Though I may
Illustrate something somewhat near,
A shadow is barely right or clear.
But one thing I see clearly:
We're "rab ne bana Di jodi."
Rab ne bana Di jodi: a match made in heaven.
Lizzie Sep 2021
Midday murmering, lulling long,
Makes me nod, nod, nod
I **** awake
When sleep o'ertakes.
Mumbling, mumbling--I'm gone.

This swaying ship, though I'm through
The shush of night-long sleep,
Rocks me so slow
With a voice monotone;
My consciousness can't keep!

As my desp'rate last,
I seize the mast,
Overcome with anxiety--
Lest I am thrown
And quickly drown,
In the sweet sleepy sea.

Midday murmering, and afternoon
Book shelves, balmy breeze.
With a quieted mind,
I slip slow behind.
God, keep me awake, please!

Nodding, nodding, nod--
Giving in--
  Aug 2021 Lizzie
Zoe Mae
Why must I always think in verse?
Is it a talent?
More like a curse
All day long songs pour through my head
But before they hit paper, they're usually dead
A few survive, most get archived and others quickly deleteted
It doesn't take more than a couple of lines to know you've been defeated
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