Our dogs
  
When dogs were wild and had a short lifespan
They had so many enemies, and they were rather clumsy
The sought refuge near man’s camp sights
And were fed by keeping other wild animals at bay.
A special bond between us grew closer when they
Discovered our needs to cuddle up to them and
We gave them safety from a cruel world where they
Other ways would not survive like wolves.
Does a dog feel love towards humans, I don’t think so?
They are used to us and what we have to offer.
For dogs the word love is meaningless they do know
What is best for them, but we will go on loving them

Lunch on a park bench

I had bought two hamburgers
Each had a lettuce and sliced tomato.
When she showed up the burgers were cold
and the lettuce had lost it crispness
the tomato had mould
The whole thing tasted of a paper bag.
She relished her burger and ate mine too
The one I have saved for the ducks.
We shared a can of soft drinks then she
had to go back to the office.
So that was it the greedy woman only
seeing me for the food
When she rang the next day, I didn't answer the phone.

Water shortage

In the deepest valley where the winter is short
summers long, sheep come home for safety
of bears and wolves, he bought an old house.
From a two hundred years house, a cane roof sprung
splendid isolation he lived the seasons fair.
Unknow to him and other dwellers of this Paradise
plans afoot to make the valley into a water reservoir
filling it with water to serve the city far away.
This ancient village, built stone by stone, drowned.
No, the dam didn’t burst lack of rain made it dry.
It was an eerie sight to see his home again
reminds him of a Paradise lost to development.

Old man swims

The old man had been persuaded to go to the beach
and since it was late September and tourists had gone home
He reluctantly agreed. He waded out waist deep and
then swam out to the bottomless part; suddenly the sea
had goose pimples which he took as a warning and swam
back to shore as fast as he could, this is not very fast for
an eighty years old man. As he reached the shore, he sensed
someone was trying to bite him, a tear in his swimsuit,
told his wife he had been attacked by a shark, she said the rip
had been there before, but he preferred his version.
Every time he tells the story the shark gets bigger and
he had wrestled with the ugly beast.

A writers’ problem

The thing is this when you die; you can’t go back
and write about it.
Those, there are a few, who say they can are charlatans.
We can speculate about death or write a thesis about it
or we can write about near-death experiences
like if a bright light a choir singing soft songs to harp music.
The river of no return.
When driving on the long bridge on my way to Algarve
I think of the bridge falling, but it is always about survival
a story to tell, the one who got away.
Death is the ending of a book you read,
was the book a good read, or was it boring?

We, the travellers

Many people when they get elderly travel the world
to see famous places and other cultures.
When they die, they will have no recollection of the travels.
I have been to every country that has a seaport,
working long hours, it was dark when I got up and dark
when the toil was over.
I might as well not have been there, because the docks
are always the same, bars, ****** and ***** and
they all looked the same, and the women were selling
the same wares whether black or brown, but for a man
alone it was the nearest he came to love.
When the big shadow falls on me, it will be forgotten.

Brussel

I dream of a river clear
As a nun’s tears
In a landscape of flowers.
Bees, don´t sting
Nestles is banned.
Honeysuckles
Is a dulcet word.
I think of a woman
who came to my village?
Years ago.
Her smile lingers
Her laughter
Alentejo wine
Not the supermarket type
With plastic top
And fake labelling.
The river of love
Runs to Brussel.
This is odd, Brussel  
Is a rain heavy place
And little else.
Except
For wonderful chocolate
And tasty beer.

Sleepless again
It was a night without sleep
I had seen the movie “The Jacal.”
Twenty years ago
Ripping stuff!
Then I went to bed and saw the movies again.
Scene after scene
So young, the actors were.
I liked the inspector the best, he with a bushy moustache.
Not so happy about the ending
Of all the police on duty, he asked the right one?
The general could have been hit, say, in the foot.
Couldn’t get the movies out of my head
Had to breakfast at six o’clock.
From now on, JB Fletcher will do; it is predictable.

I could see the smoke coming.
                      from the attic
the thing is the house of dolls
was not on fire
only the figures that once was cherished.
I put the ashes of someone’s childhood
in a box of wood.
One with golden handles.
Later did I realised that all must go
even those nearest to our heart.

Wine bottle

The old man's wine bottle is empty
he looks into the future
rippling through him like Goosebumps
on a lake,
he sighs get up to find another bottle

Memorials

They have gone, not a trace left, but memories
leaves are getting yellow. No denying fall is here
Me, a sole survivor, standing on a plateau
of nothingness where the dust of years blows.
It was those years who supported you here,
I shall not climb the outside pf the Eifel tower
honours the army of welders; forgotten now
Eifel tower lives, but the man lost his glory crown
when trying to build the Panama Canal.
This long way so, many doors to open and close
he sees shadows the welders are here
perhaps Eifel also lurks behind a locked door.

A dirge

He was not for me
He was not for you.
Stillness.
We miss his absence.

Serious now

A man
Knocked on my door
He was
Collecting
Laughter.
Mournful
He was when leaving
Without a smile
On his face.

Madness
Stood by the window, saw a man with a cane, walking
down the road, I waited for him to return I waited all day long
till I was so hungry that I rushed into the kitchen
grabbed an apple and continued my vigil waiting for
the man with a cane to return. Darkness comes the road has
no light I had a flashlight to lit up part of the road  
should I hear some noise? Two in the morning I heard him
he looked startled in the flashlight, this was the moment when I knew
I was truly mad.

Poets and intellectuals

A big white screen I look at it and type a few words,
utter banalities about a washing machine, the brain has nowhere to go
but to think of the near things.
There was a time when I sat on top of a mountain feet dangling high
above ground when I thought if I tried could fly; everything was possible
now I’m dead inside. Death starts when the mind goes numb
and you forget your childhood, was I a Child? I don't know wish I was
a giraffe and could see life from a lofty height.
The TV bores me, I was never the poet I wanted to be I don't want
tomorrow to happen it is too difficult to write anything sensible.
The thing is to break new ground plough pristine earth and produce
something that doesn’t look like carrots.
But up from the earth sprout old clichés written over and over again
by respected intellectuals and famous poets, except for Oscar Wilde
they are just boring old ******* dressing up their ordinariness in
words we had to look up the dictionary to understand, but it is still trite.
But their reputation a great thinker follows them into perpetuity.

Forest walk

I walked in the woods
the ground was like a posh carpet
easy to walk on
Too easy?
I stopped, looked at the tree they
were breathless and the stillness menacing,
the ground might be ready to swallow me
better get back to asphalt again.

The ancient regime
  
I was in Shanghai once during the cultural revolution
everyone mostly young people wore the same grey clothes
half military cut, not a colour in sight except for the flag.
And the book they gave everyone called “Mao´s little red book.”
where words the new China was printed, those
who argued had to confess in public and sent to a camp,
or farm this to learn to be a worker.
Of course, in this socialist paradise, we were not allowed
to go ashore and the was a guard by the gangway to be sure
we didn´t run away.
It didn´t strike anyone; it was the last thing we would do.
It couldn´t last slowly colours crept in, and women dressed
even if grey dresses, with feminist style
Today China is a state capitalist country and is doing
very well, thanks to American outsourcing (wages) making
the Midwest into a wasteland.

Our Collaboration

When sympathy reach its limit?
Day after day we see on the TV screen
war and wanton killing, the temptation is to turn
the TV off or find a channel with funny cartoons.
How many children were killed in Yemen or
Syria becomes a political debate, the children
a statistic; and we say how people can be so cruel
as to **** children. Don't sit too comfortable
in your easy chair, ask the question who gave them
the weaponry to make their killing…we did.
Without our complicity, there would have been
no wars to speak of, but we prefer not to know.
But we can march and hold our government
and other arms dealer to account, if we shout long enough,
we will be heard.
Do that before you sit in the comfortable chair your conscience
is clear and you have saved many children’s life

Fishery


He is a fisherman from Guiana
doesn´t do Tonga, but the sea is blue.
His face is a map of America.
He fishes sharks (not Hemingway)
one of them took his arm.
Vengeance is mine, said the lord.
Crap !!! He says
and set red sail for China.

The Vagabond

He was a wanderer with a knapsack, had walked
the roads from one town to another for 40 years.
He had a house once, but family life didn't
suit him, strolled out one day and continued
Drifting the way his feet took him.
on his itinerant way, he sometimes got a job
at farms slept in the barn.
He was a good worker and liked by the people
of the land, but one morning he wasn't there
he was out walking again.
One day he was caught by a blizzard found
an abandoned car found blankets and an overall
in the boot of, sat in the back wrapped up well
and went to sleep.
When he awoke, it was morning, but he could not
get out, snowed in, waiting for someone to take
him out. It took two days before he was found alive
but hungry and thirsty.
A newspaper got hold of the survival and there
was a picture of him in the papers, the woman saw
the picture of him and said: this is my husband!
Before she came and claims him, he disappeared
again wandering the byways.

The shop
at the corner of my childhood
has stopped selling Danish pastry
and coco macrons
milk and cheese.
The room is bare
The cheese cutter is no longer there
And the old-fashioned weight
Doesn’t pling.
There is no butter
And no one asks why?
The bell that rang when opening
The shop's door
Doesn’t ring anymore
The shop is overtaken by time.
Perhaps someone will buy the shop
Make a wine bar
Making us into middle-class alcoholics
I have sudden hunger for Danish pastry.

Another sleepless night

A went back in time litany of failures
What I wanted to do I never did
My happiest time was when living alone
In the interior of Algarve
I walked with my dogs in the woods had
Learned conversation with an oak
While the dog chased rabbits.
Six happy years what more can a man ask.
Turbulent water ahead I drank too much
The dog died, and my loneliness became a burden
Pressing me into apathy.
Well, life became tolerable again,
but my contentment was never the same.
My old house is standing there unsold
It is my life raft should the hard time arrive and
The ship sinks in a storm cast.
I live in another town it will do for now and
I’m too tired to move again, I know from experience
Wherever I go, I will meet myself in the doorway.

In the absence of hatred

This man called Anders, a mass murderer, sits in his cell
a gigantic spider spinning a web of curiosity
we get entangled in.
We ask questions he cannot answer; if he could, we would
perhaps not care for the answers.
Learned men will write weighty books that will create
more questions are no valid answers, but abstract theories
why did this cataclysm happen?
Forget him as you forgot last winter.
Let him disappear into the labyrinth of the criminally insane.
When he dies, sooner than you think, do not make
big headlines of his demise.

Travel beyond the galaxy

When I can’t sleep at night
I close my eyes and see a myriad of stars
Some are red but mostly blue.
If I continue my odyssey through the galaxy
The star becomes rarer and further
Away from space where nothing stirs.
I’m looking into eternity it’s is cold and unfeeling
Travel through this vast space
I fear the vacuum, a ghostly immobility
Where nothing matters, never will.

Alexander Graham Bell

It was fine, quiet winter´s day I listened to distant noise,
dogs bark -you can´t avoid this in the Algarve-
smoke from chimneys straight up before disbursing and disappearing.
A few clouds drift about looking like wedding dresses of the unmarried,
The sun is a golden coin captain hook would **** to obtain.
I smell grilled sardine, and a cat on a fence is watching me.
I sternly tell myself to go for a walk before it gets too cold
But blithely ignore the inner voice.
As I drift on a slothful cumulus, my phone rings
I answer the voice says, sorry, the wrong number.

Meeting Van Gogh

The wheat field is blond as a German milkmaid.
Intense heat, in the shade of an olive tree
I saw a grumpy Van Gogh is glaring at me for
appearing in his painting.
My scooter is electric blue and doesn’t fit in.
Easy now, my painter, pretend it is a mule.
The vine, deep green or dark cerulean
soon bottles of liquid pleasure.
The road in your landscape is like a mamba
sneaking its way, killing rabbits blue.
The afternoon sun is fierce, sweat in my eyes
I fall among thistles, and Van Gogh smiles.

Epigram
It doesn’t matter how far you go
What height you climb to the top
You will always feel like an intruder
The stigma of poverty clings to you.

The death of comedy
Freddy Starr is dead they say it was because
He smoked too many cigarettes, no one asked to ask why?
He was accused of making lewd remarks
To a young girl in i974, the case was dropped.
But unwisely Freddy sought redress in court, men often
Loses in cases that involve ***.
Freddy sold his house and moved to Spain he paid
Some of the million own but he was not that rich
And the gold digger was after more.
now they wanted his little house in Spain,
And as we know the too crowd know no mercy
Men are guilty by their masculinity, which is seen as a sin
In our times, so he died alone with his kitten and
The MEtoo harridans gloat.

they called him excellency and a name I forgot.
As it turns out my wife´s brother was his book-keeper
a profession where the person knows a lot of secrets.
The meeting will be conducted in French.
I, thinking of Galloway calling Saddam Hussein
his excellency, must not chuckle.
Since we didn´t know what to serve him, we bought
a bottle of whiskey I had a taste and got instantly ill
the strong drink doesn´t behove me well.
She hopes he will pay for the patient´s stay with
us and the hospital bill.
I think the meeting will go well if I sit still and call
him your excellency without giggling.

The Island

There was an island where the fiord arms open and the     ocean begins
  it was a nice little island with trees and a strip of sand for the boy to play
  he had no interest in swimming, favoured to build dreamy sandcastles.
Not that the boy couldn´t swim, his father had thought him; he didn´t like it
the sea was cold, and monster might lurk in the unseen depth.
There was also a strong current further out depending on the way of the ocean, his father,
who was a strong swimmer, often swam where the current was strong; he called it fighting against the elements?
I saw him waving his arms; he waved back, another current took him around the island, he was still waving but looked distressed. he walked up to the cabin
and told his mother, who ran and loosened the rowing boat from its mooring
To find him, but he had disappeared. The coast guard came they were looking for him; he knew they
would not see him he had been eaten by a sea monster, but he said nothing
The stay on the island had been a happy one for his parents. She was pregnant and hoped for a
daughter, life was beautiful for them, and now this.
A motorboat came and took them back to town, families came, there were many tears,
he was asked why he hadn’t told his mother the first time he saw his father
Waving, a question he could not answer.
His mother gave birth to a beautiful baby everyone said she looked like her father
he didn´t think so, she was just beautiful. The daughter grew up and went off to university
So, it was only him and his mother left in the old house.
She took to drinking and, in her cups, hinted that had he called the first time,  He might be alive now;
he never answered.
His mother committed suicide drowning in her bath-tup.
The house was sold.
The daughter needed the money, and he became a wanderer voyaging across the many seas.
Always restless, the sense of guilt was always there.
Sometimes he dreamt he was the monster swallowing his father.
Now as he is an old man, he wrote a letter to his sister, he so much needed someone absolving him of guilt, there was never any answer.

Suggestible me


I had ended up in a country with a strange pub culture
and obsession with the class which I found restrictive.
No posh pubs if the working class and not slumming it
if you were middle class, and the rich lived in Bermuda.
I was full of terror and uncertainty this world was
not of my liking to get through the day I drank a lot
mainly at home or in the park.
My new wife said I was an alcoholic and a nice man
from AA came and took me to a meeting where people
sat around a table talking about themselves and how much
they had suffered, while I am just getting out, was a full
of the terror of agoraphobia.
I suddenly had many friends, but they were mates only
as long as I went to their meeting, that over time became
repetitive like reading the same book a hundred times.
I stopped going to their gatherings went to the library instead
and spent happy days reading, but lost my friends.
Finally, after a nervous breakdown, I got much help from
a psychologist to confront my fears.
But I was never at ease in this country I left and is blessed
in Portugal where no one knows my name.

Rainy Belgique  

I will invest in Belgium near Brussel
14% increase in two years, pine tree I think
inferior with a bad reputation.
They make good clogs in Belgium, I thought
clogs were a Dutch affair.
There is not much these between these countries
full of canals and old wind-mills
The tree itself has the appearance of an addict
without an umbrella.
Anyway, Belgium is too small and rainy for a forest
I will collect bad poems and use them to decorate
The out-door loo, the cowshed and other places
Of disinterest

Cancel culture

They are coming our way barefoot, and red dust
we sink into apathy.
Churches made into dance halls and brothels.
Christianity is dead, our culture based on our faith
has been debased it, is called egalitarianism.
Banners and sword.
Heads roll down a hill into a blazing valley.
God has forsaken us.

Epiphany

It was an incredible summer in 1950 the war was over things were getting
back to normal, mother's new boyfriend who worked at a factory had
a rowboat and paid holiday leave. A Sunday early we rowed to a small island
in the bay, mother had brought a blanket, sandwiches in brown paper bags
mostly jam I think and two bottles of soft drink, water and cold milk that soon
was off, and a thermos flask of coffee. The boyfriend gave me a line with
a hook on told me to go fishing- telling me what to do is not easy not even for me-
in the shallow water near the pier as bait, I found a worm under a stone thread
the living thing on the fishhook.
the water was crystal clear had tiny fishes that looked like rainbows swimming
about I saw the sky I was in a trance thought I was what I saw took a step
forward and landed in the water people came running helping me up back I was
in real-time mother came running to shout at me as mothers do and worried
about my delicate health. Rowing back into town again the boyfriend was grumpy
and suggested I had fallen into the water to get the attention I said little in my defence
how could I explain for a moment I had understood everything, but on the other hand, he could have been right, how is a boy supposed to know

parable sonnets

I was flying high, yet it was hot my wings tired
spotted a well flew down and sat by its side.
By leaning forward, I could see my reflection
in the clear water.
A dark shadow pushed me, fell into the well.
I looked up but, the evil was not there
and the sun was westward bound, taking with it
the daylight.
I had sharp talons clawed my way up to the rim of the well.
Night, evil sat by the fireside reading a book of magic.
I tore its eyes out, the scream brought thunder and hailstone.
The evil ran outside to cool the eyes he no longer had.
It fell into the well and called for help.
What could I do a bird with silky feathers?
I flew up to the sky, the scream of anguish bore the suffering of humankind
echoed through the galaxy.

Echography  

On a bed attached to many wires, my body was prodded
by female hands, at my age, it was not everyday people touch me.
My heart sounded like an old steam-ship battling the waves off Greenland
seeking calmer water; as for my pacemaker, it sounded like
a pump in need of repair.
I fell asleep, which caused laughter from the staff; it is not often
happen to a patient.
Then it was over. I thanked the staff, the finding if any, will be delivered
by my doctor next week, she can also take a look at the lump
In the middle of the chest, the last time I was operated
for this, it was called cancer.

A rare moment
it was in the winter I tried to fasten
my skates to my boots
A girl about 14 came
Helped me.
She said we had the same father
And was therefore
Sister and brother.
She gave me a hug
And half a chocolate bar
And ate the other half she ate.
A rare moment
I felt safe sitting there
Another sister
Who didn’t tease me?
A little boy, so full of wonder.

I remember
Thinner and thinner
He became featherlight sinking into Alzheimer
He had forgotten me.
All his life he had worked in a factory
Something about canning fish.
And it was the only thing he could remember.
He thought I was a fellow worker
And asked if I remembered this and that
I played along he was happy
Till the next day. He had forgotten me.
Perhaps his ghost stalks the old factory
Standing there an empty building waiting
To be bulldozed.

The surgery

I’m waiting for a friend of mine
He is having heart surgery tomorrow
And it is lonely not having friends around
The day before a serious surgery
We’ll not talk about illnesses’ and other
Subject related to hospitals.
Not talking in hushed voices but about
The calm sea and seagulls: I know it is
One of my favourite subjects.
Talk about everything else to keeping
His mind of tomorrow.
The hospital is in Lisbon, and he lives
In Algarve and have to take the bus
But that is ok; busses are modern now
And have a toilet and an ambulance will
Take him back.
Having had the surgery also I know, how
It feels like being alone, so I wish him well.

At the hospital

At the waiting sit my wife is in with her doctor
In front of me to comely women sit one wears
A big bun in the back of her hair, the other one
A smaller bun.
I speculate if this bun difference manifests  
Itself in their nether regions. My moral self,
steps in: don’t think like that the Me-too will
come after you, and that is scary,
A woman in a wheelchair throws up in a bag
Compose herself put lipstick on and wink
At me. No, thank you. I'm not wheeling you around
Anytime soon.
My wife is leaving the consulting room a big smile
In her African face, no, she has not got cancer
Only need knee surgery.
She is a colourful sight wear many rings and
Bracelets, today she is dressed in red and green
And lit up the landscape.
We drink coffee in the canteen while she tells
Me about her pains in her knee.

A story of love

Eva Braun was a Greenland seal who lived in an aquarium
Herr ****** liked animals; dogs adored him.
in childhood, his call for love denied him
his dream was sitting by the fireside stroking a dog
and feeding Eva in her aquarium.
In the country, I lived on many tiny islands
bridges built; the islands no longer feel like islands.
Nevertheless, we stood at the gangway of a ferry
that was going to an island that didn’t have a bridge
I knew you were not coming back, pleaded with
you gave me a phone number when I tried to call
it sounded as was dipped into a fish tank
I heard repressed laughter; it must have been
fun to joke with a man you no longer found useful.
C'est la vie…

Time lasts long in Portugal

Got up early had a shower and close shave
Put a white shirt on, bank people like it when
Their clients look prosperous.
My bank is in a nearby town I followed
The coast road has fewer cars a strict speed
The limit is vigorously enforced.
The bank was closed.
A man told me banks are shut on Sundays.

for contact: Jan Oskar. hansen@gmail.com

Lemon tree very pretty

I lived in a village where the neighbour had a lemon tree
it was on rich soil in the small garden where chicken roamed
In January, it was full of perfectly formed fruit, beautiful shining bright
with an effervescent hint of green.
I wished someone would take the tree to an art gallery
as an example of perfection.
At an art exhibition, I saw a painting of a lemon by Gunther Grass,
it was beautiful looked real in its yellow lushness; he won a Nobel prize,
not for the lemon but for his marvellous authorship.
Near Ramallah, there was a similar lemon tree greatly admired
by the locals, but the settlers came burned down the tree.
This is what happens when the brutes rule.

The lonely cabin

I knocked on the door of the small cottage
the window steamed up I drew a childish picture
faces of children, that when the sun came erased
the drawings and, I thought of childhood.
My brother had lived here, his children refused
gave the cottage to be a gesture of goodwill.
I knocked on the door; it fell in a cloud of dust
the cabin was empty a floorboard creaked in pain
unused being walked on.
I turned to leave, the door arose and blocked my way
I promised the cottage, a man from the village
will come and paint inside and outside I will
move in here with my dog.
The cottage relented, door and window opened
letting in fresh air and sunlight.

The ****

Through paper thin walls we heard the mother
say, no stop, stop don't do this
but he did the eighteen-year-old son
***** his mother and we sat there trying not
to listening to this inequity.
In time it became a norm and their bed creaked,
we played the radio a bit louder, spoke with raised
voices, anything to drown the sin.
I was glad the day they moved away,
they were now a couple holding hands,
and there was nothing we could do,
in the end, they had to pay, or perhaps
not, as they were knee deep
in an obscenity ******, they call love.

ducks
It was an early Sunday morning in June
A man I a rowing boat stealing ducks in the lake,
who thought he was there to feed them,
bagged two before the others got the message,
this was not a nice man with a bag of breadcrumbs.
Two mighty swans didn't like this they swam to
the boat pulled the man out and held him under
the water till he stopped struggling.
Empty rowboat in the lake a mystery, his body
was found next day; an accident they concluded
but didn't mention the dead ducks.

The love bugs.

Love is like diabetes you have it and live with the malady
taking the right medicine but is not going away.
When a man falls in love, he thinks he is in heaven and follows
where love takes him until it dawns on him, he loves
a person who doesn´t love him or pretends to love him.
Whether she leaves him or he leaves her, the pain is equal.
It has no cure only a lifelong sadness that like a shadow
is always with him, if he had been more caring, she might
have stayed, but he knows in his heart it is not so.
Those who care about him say, if you stay at a bus stop a bus will
stop, but, it isn´t not going his way.
Unrequested love is like diabetes he has to accept and go on with
the business of living, after all, sadness makes a person more
understanding to other people’s problem.

Epigram 5

Self-awareness must not be confused
With self-consciousness which can be
Devastating for people with fragile egos  
You cannot be as good as your inner self.

Brooklyn

Salt beef with onion
sandwiches.
Goat cheese made
near the wailing wall
The waiter
is a scientist.

Intelligent eyes
behind thick-lensed glasses
do not dare to leave a tip.
The burden of my ancestors
weighed heavy on my mind.

The chicken soup was excellent
I shan´t return
Before
Palestine is a sovereign state

The scientists

It is a tranquil winter day. I listen to a distant nose
a dog barks, typical in Algarve, smoke from chimneys go
straight before disbursing and disappearing.
A few clouds drift about like wedding dresses of the unmarried.
The sun is a golden coin captain Hook would **** for.
I smell grilled sardine, the opening and closing of doors
a cat sits on a wall watching me.
I go into a café, three scientists talk about Mars, until one says
let us talk about marine biology.
The other two laugh. Do you mean grilled sardines?
They are theoretical physicist and thing they are bees’ knees.
I drink coffee, eat a Napoleon cake.
Drive home, it has been a good day when the phone rings
I don´t bother to answer it.