The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But the theory now goes
That the apple’s a rose,
And the pear is, and so’s
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose—
But were always a rose.

Please do not Leave Facebook, my friend,
These storms will soon subside.
ReMOANERS will get used to “Britain Out”.
They’ll grow tired of making you feel
A *****
For voting to jump the sinking Euro ship.

Don’t leave Facebook
For Google will crash,
Bebo and Myspace will return
And the BitPound will plummet.
Latin will become the default internet language
As hackers rule the web.

Be afraid, very afraid.
The consequences of Leaving would be dire.
But if you Stay here
In the ***** of the Facebook Family
You will be safe and secure
And eligible to claim
Your complimentary cuddly toy.

Paul Butters

© PB 25\6\2016.

From the patriotic song--verses 4 and 5, followed by three of my own verses:

   * Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame:
    All their attempts to bend thee down,
    Will but arouse thy generous flame;
    But work their woe, and thy renown.

    "Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:
    "Britons never will be slaves."

    To thee belongs the rural reign;
    Thy cities shall with commerce shine:
    All thine shall be the subject main,
    And every shore it circles thine.

    "Rule, Britannia! rule the waves:
    "Britons never will be slaves." *

When the international banks decree
that commerce belongs to them, not thee,
thou wilt arise and set things straight
and take back thy rightful fate.

When Brussels, and Germany insist
that immigrants from every shore
should find a home inside your door
(despite the people's cry--"No more!)
you quietly vote to resist.

What fire will flame from Britain's spark?
The division has been now made stark:
On one side, the elite's intent--
the other way, the people went.

You've got a glow
like a star.
From afar,
I wished on you,
and now, there you are.
Looking at me
from behind those
eyelashes,
smashing
my inhibitions
like broken prose.

Pretty you,
whom I have yet to meet,
I greet you,
sweetly,
and ask you this:
would you miss
the moonlight
if I stole it from your eyes?
The mirrored glow
they show
is more bright,
and not to my surprise-
how could
even the moon
not swoon,
lost in your gaze?
Moonbeams and
starlight, both
seem to have
lost their ways.

Could you tell me,
pretty you-
did the wind put you there?
You have taken
my breath,
and shaken
the air
around your face.
Such grace must
surely fly-
so how is it
that you pass me by
here on the ground?
Don't misunderstand,
I'm glad you've
come around,
pretty you.

Pretty you,
I hope I'm not
too fresh,
but my mind is
a bit of a mesh,
and you're pouring
through it.
The sound of
nature stopping
to admire,
like moths to a fire,
myself closest to
the flame.
Tell me,
pretty you,
do you have a name?
What word could be
crafted, such a beauty to frame?
Surely, anything plain
would only defame.

I'll be honest,
pretty miss,
my heart tells me to
chance a kiss,
but I know I shouldn't
rush, but take it slow.
Instead, I have another plan
to sit here, and maybe
hold your hand,
and under moonlight,
your voice, get to know.
But should the passion overtake,
don't be shy, make no mistake-
I won't be put off should you choose to,
lean in close,
just
like
this...
and like so,
steal a little kiss...

That would be just fine, pretty you

Say the much-beloved words--
that until now, had been unheard.
A voice and face imparts a life
to a book’s words in black and white.
Imagination can deliver
landscape, drama, suspense (shivers).
But a living human can
turn dream and thought into a man.