Amelia, our baby first,
in nine  months have grown a third;
no speech, no talkie,
all she wants is walkie-walkie.

Being our first we naturally debate,
on how best to educate;
dolls for girls and guns for boys,
what nonsense, toys are toys.

Will she a doctor, lawyer or housewife be,
I live long hope to see;
right now she is just naughty,
and breaks the dining cutlery.

Of food she is choosy,
and eats most daintily;
she is chubby and she is fair,
we only lament her lack of hair.

Every now and then a few steps she takes,
tip-toe grace does not a ballerina makes;
like all parents our hopes high burn,
to a swan, our little Amelia turns.

Knowing games played by Fate,
we have decided, now of late;
to take the profit with the loss,
to let nature takes it's course.

The things of value we provide,
the self-life chart she decides;
this happy burden, we dare say,
is gladly borne, day-to-day.

As we look on her behalf,
down life's long and winding path;
we can only say, with a sigh,
sweet dreams and goodnight.

It's the night before
Christmas,
all is quiet and still,
a knock on my door
harsh as winter's chill.

No one is really there
I know,
just wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air
with nowhere to go.

I look at the door
handle,
***** and rusty brown,
like a window decor,
stopping no thief or vandal.

There's room here somewhere
I know,
for wind-blown leaves,
borne on icy air,
with nowhere to go.

I think I've been here before
and what's more
I am doing what I did before
only a lot more

Time came and left its mark
on body, but what a lark,
I feel as young as when born
with the bubbles fore-gone.

Things I've learned and things I'll forget
things I've yet to know and regret;
there were times I feel supreme
and times with my pride redeemed.

Four and twenty but not for long
winters came before summer's gone,
leaving me bolder and wiser
to the pitfalls of all liars.

I've traveled and I've passed,
I've stumbled, got lost, but at last,
when it seems impossible to find,
though in haste, something to call mine.

Truth has done its foulest, dodged me at every turn,
till I've doubt it ever was, when will I ever learn?,
What it is, they never say, but it's alright,
they won't, they don't, cause they're just up-tight.

Love they say is a thing divine,
Love I always say is so unkind;
To fool the gullible and to fool the fool,
but isn't there a bit of us in every fool?

So take a heed and bite your tongue,
take what comes and let tomorrow be hung;
take it on the top and don't look inside,
for what you'll see won't be nice.

Make peace with all your tomorrows,
disturb it not and sub-prime your sorrows;
forget the yesterdays for they harm you not,
arrest the todays for that's all you've got.

Never let it be said, or whispered, of you,
that in seeing your tomorrow, in any hue,
of worrying about your yesterday, or last year,
you've lost your today, drowned in a tear.

Are there lawyers in heaven?
who sells fish in a Seven-Eleven?
How do you prove guilt or innocence,
with the devil conspicuous in his absence?

Are there barbers or pastors in Heaven?
Until the End-of-Days, it is unproven;
If we are to do some speculation,
Better to do more charitable donations.

But one profession, I quite understand,
whether in hell or God's Disneyland,
that will not make a good living;
that's doing double entry accounting.

So where do accountants go, you ask;
now you really need an oxygen mask;
In hell, in heaven, or anywhere you look,
there's just no place to cook the books.

Someone may now ask about exorcists,
I hate to answer, but I just can't resist;
ask your grandma or grandpa,
they are in a real big dilemma.

In heaven, no demons to trouble you,
In hell, there are more than quite a few;
In heaven, all are good, so no originality,
In hell, who works for nothing for Eternity?

The "One-Man Searching Game"
is played by the weak, the strong,
the hungry and the lame.

In the beginning,
there was a rhyme;
it sounded good,
grand and kind;
all we needed
was silence
and time.

But we hurried still,
when there was
neither a hunt,
nor a ****.

It was a search,
we made a find;
for those who
played the game,
it was one
and the same:-
searching, finding,
finding, searching,
always a beginning,
never an ending;
always traveling,
never arriving.

It's not a lonely game.
We have one man searching
for some mens' fears, and,
some men searching
for one man's dreams.
One half searched
for pillars and walls,
the others  
an open door.

It's a serious game.
Those who won
became nervous wrecks;
Those who lose
became stranger yet.

It's a funny game.
Some gave up
for loss of words;
some played on
even when no one heard.
For it's a One-Man Game,
on a one-man search.

It's an easy game.
Where songs
were being sung,
and heroes were
never, never hung.

I can go on and on,
With words new
and words long;
Ask the wise and the old,
you'll never be told;
though others called it
by other names,
how do you end,
a One-Man Searching Game?