#waterloo
Napoleon Bonaparte
1769 Corsica is where he got his start
One of the greatest commanders in history
His manner of death a 200-year-old mystery
Napoleon played it close to the vest
With his armies he was always the best
But 'twas nothing he could do
When he met his Waterloo
Lived his last few years under house arrest
Napoleon drank the water and headed for the loo
He did nothing different than you or I could ever do
Be kind to your skin and protect your bone-a-parts
Remember that's where good hygiene starts!
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 12:00 PM UTC
He wrote his wife
from battle's field
how he cleaved through
the solider's head,
and how now, he said,
I see his eyes peer hard
from night's sleep.
All about me men
were killing, hacking
each on each,
as if Hell had emptied
all upon the field,
none giving quarter;
none until death comes
will yield.
He added fond wishes
and kisses at the bottom,
his scribbled hand
was hard to read
midst fingerprints
blood marked,
where one had bled.
She had his letter
and his words,
but he was dead.
Oct 2, 2017
Oct 2, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
♪♥♫♥♫♥♪♥♫♥♫
My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six.
Bjorn, and the flickas sailed from East to West.
Santa Lucia never shone so blessed
as she did in my private Euro-mix.
Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – branding, then impressing
grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing
love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).
The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:
Frida, Agnetha – your longships linger
Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.
portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,
enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.
I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 10:49 PM UTC