Love bequeathed a friend in mauve.
Of falling trees and broken temples.
For promises.
Azure bright blue.
Stunning seas.
Not the Isle of Wight.
I'm so sad to say.
Ferries, cause swell.
The water's not clear, there's a God awful smell.
Not always however, the beaches are pretty, so nice for a stroll.
The affluent fellows strut into Cowes, they're sailing their yachts off into the calm.
Avoiding the storms, they're not going home.
Wife left in the house.
He says she loves gardening.
Who knows, maybe she's a gnomess, a tidiness freak.
Goes off and leaves her every week,
He tells us she likes it that way...
Well, I never know what to say, perhaps he's just a player.
I have my suspicions.
Hovels hiding behind shutter less houses.
Coveted lovers secure in lies.
His lover lay trembling on the ground.
Her pleasant muses they truly astound.
Music and moments, painted in pink.
Designed to make him sit and think.
If the music be power of cannons and smoke, let nobody choke.
Of seasons and flowers,sweet aromatic breezes of night scented Jasmine.
Fragrantly green, very fresh.
I actually love the Isle of Wight...
(c) Livvi MMCV