"cuffed" poems
‘To bed! To bed!’
Said Sleepy-head;
‘Tarry awhile,’ said Slow;
‘Put on the pan,’
Said Greedy Nan;
‘We'll sup before we go.’
(from Mother Goose)
They sat at the kitchen table as
The candle flickered low,
And Greedy Nan put on the pan
To indulge her sister, Slow,
While Sleepy Weepy Annabelle
Blotted her book with tears,
And thought of her Beau from long ago
Who she hadn’t seen for years.
‘Why doesn’t Roger notice me,
Why doesn’t Alan Dell?
I’m wearing the dress cut low for me
And I’ve hitched my skirt as well.
I’ve a pretty turn to my ankle, so
You’d think it would drive them wild.’
‘But men are a mystery,’ said Slow,
‘And Alan Dell’s a child.’
While over the pan stood Greedy Nan,
Was cracking a turkey’s egg,
A lump of yeast and a slice of beast
And a single spider’s leg.
With a wing of bat and an ounce of fat
And a toe of frog for the spell,
She needed to turn her sister off
From her crush on Alan Dell.
For Greedy Nan was the eldest girl
And would have to marry first,
The other two would wait in the queue
Or their fortunes be reversed,
The omelette sizzled, and in the pan
She added before they saw,
A piece of some Devil’s Trumpet plant
For the mating game meant war.
She sliced the omelette into half
And she served them up a piece,
‘Didn’t you want?’ said Annabelle
But Slow enjoyed the feast.
‘I’m not that terribly hungry now
I’ve cooked it up in the pan,
I think I’ll just have a slice of bread,’
Said the scheming Greedy Nan.
They finished up and they sat awhile,
And they mused about their fate,
‘If Greedy Nan isn’t married soon,
For us it will be too late.’
‘I’ve set my sights on a country squire,’
Said Nan, without a blink,
Lured them away from her secret fire
To confuse what they might think.
‘The room is woozy, spinning around,
I’d better get me to bed,’
Said Annabelle, while Slow with a frown
Saw Dwarves dancing in her head.
But Greedy Nan was cleaning the pan
To clear all signs of the spell,
Her back was turned to her sisters, spurned
For the sake of Alan Dell.
And when he came in the morning
Greedy Nan was sat by the door,
While Annabelle and her sister Slow
Were lying dead on the floor,
‘I didn’t mean it to **** them, Al,
It was only a simple spell,’
But as he cuffed and led her away
He frowned, did Alan Dell.
David Lewis Paget
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:01 PM UTC
You looked much prettier with long hair.
Don’t - give me that, show me a smile
it’s better to be natural oh!
look your arms are so hairy, hairier than mine.
Not rowdy or older than myself but definitely
confident and intelligent and maybe even
‘quirky’ as long as she’s thin
and kind. Because I don’t like fat girls
how to find your dream woma
where to find dream woman online free
I think I’m still in love with Grace but
she ignores and blanks and shuns me even
after I shared so much yet
she doesn’t even seem to care
hey
I’m verrru drunk
I see u
the little green dot next to your name haha
night then iguess
I think I just hate women and that
stupid insipid conceited *****
couldn’t tell a good guy if
he cuffed her clean
across the cheekbone
and spat in both her eyes
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
He used to drink orange juice
out of cups that curved,
like his smile used to,
licking droplets of orange sun
off of his lips;
sun beams,
that shined from his face,
and his eyes,
which was unfair
because he knew;
I'm telling you,
he knew,
that summer was my favorite time of year.
And when the sun hit me,
like a thousand arrows,
from the bow of Heartbreak,
that I would think of him
and his orange juice cup.
And question all the reseons he sent me letters
with different stamps,
always scribbled in black lines,
like his pupils,
when I let him see through the jail bars of my soul,
and I asked him,
no,
I begged him to leave me cuffed to the wall,
with no food or water,
starving my desire to love again,
knowing that if I devoured every word,
every sound,
and memory,
of trembling hands on first dates,
leaning in to kiss me,
with lips and fists at the nape of my neck,
clinging to me like feathers;
with every single intake of breath,
and caterpillars that wrapped themselves in silk,
and waited for days and nights to pass,
until finally,
they spread their wings to reveal Picasso's paintings,
that I would eventually die of starvation,
as the words ran out,
and the kisses became short,
and the butterflies died...
He knew.
He knew that I loved summer;
and the drops of orange juice on his lips.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:16 AM UTC
I feel invisible
Yet you claim(ed) I am the air you breathe
And perhaps like air I am always present,
But presently forgotten
The heaviness of your hush is crushing me with empty blows
This silence leads me to wander down a path cloaked in a heavy mist
That whispers harsh truths such as:
Our hopeless, fictitious, drawn out infatuation is like
A library book that was checked out last March
You underlined and doggie-paged the first few chapters
And then left it on your shelf to collect dust all of April and May
I foolishly kept begging you to finish the book
Read the last sentence
Take time to skim over the epilogue
Please
Find your way to the back cover
I foolishly ignored your “I can’t”s
And now it’s late August and our love is long overdue,
In the opposite sense of what the phrase typically means
I write with angry lead because
I am too stubborn to admit I just filled a trash bin with tissues
And that the cuffed sleeves of my flannel
Are damp like grass’s morning dew
I have so much more to say,
Although I cannot find the words
To say anything more than
You should’ve written.
Because two weeks of nothing
Was enough for me to realize that you are just a passing breeze
Seldom present, presently becoming something of the past.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:32 PM UTC
Devilish Grin
with a
Naughty smile
Dark hair
Blue eyes
spoiled-n-wild
Tats two
Black-n-blue
dark-n-tan
white stockings
Knee-high
high- heels
spread thighs
Deep breath
wide eyes
long strokes
deeper sighs
nail marks
blood red
already dried
move slow
Said wise
silent screams
already tried
hand cuffed
lips sealed
Hair tied
Legs wrapped
open wide
Firm grip
twitching hips
In joy
Toes curled
Slip-n-slide
smooth ride
deep ******
Headboard knocks
she replies
screaming
please
come inside
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 2:41 PM UTC
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
With porcelain features, I drowned in her sight
Dominant I control her, she submits to my needs
I punish and tease her with preferences of sinful greed
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
She lashes and thrashes but I control this fight
Blindfolded and gagged, aroused from my touch
Candle drips between her hips; she loves this so much
Strapped to the bed with a fistful of her mane
She enjoys pain and pleasure; I love this **** game
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
My fledgling fun toy I command her tonight
She moans with pleasures and screams when she’s bad
Electricity attached, her fears makes me glad
Vaginal to **** play, or no *** at all
A new ******* kit arrives; I’m bouncing off the wall
Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
Under the bed restrains, ****** clamps, and leather cuffs in my sight
She’s cuffed, restrained, clamped and all ready
She needs me it feeds me and keeps me rock steady
She gives me her all in suspended animation
Together we are driven by a powerful lustful twisted sensation
For Bound, wound, and tied up all tight
You’re my favorite present, my fix, and my all through the night
Oct 2, 2016
Oct 2, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
i am
monday nights filled with
candlelit journal entries
and sipping hot tea while
watching rain bounce off
the roof and open windows
in autumn and messy hand-
written letters and white
tees and cuffed jeans and
pb&j; with the crust cut
off and folded origami
cranes and watching the
sun rise while everyone
else is tucked away in
their beds and midnight
car rides and candid smiles
and lists written in blue
ink and wildflowers and
mountains and birds singing
and books and movies that
make you cry and nicknames
and flannels in the winter
and soft music and loud
music and moments recorded
only by memory and pumpkin
pie and forever stamps
i am all the little things
and if you don’t make an
effort to understand why i
love all the things i love
you will never understand
me
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
I was a shirt filed with straw and rags.
Pants that hang loose. Jeans cuffed pinned uncomfortably.
Nothing to think of; a hat filled with straw.
The inability to walk. Pinned to a board.
Hickory oak.
Chest disproportionate to a small waist.
Sleeves flung in the wind.
Left standing still; a face motionless.
Pinned to hickory oak.
A shadow left in an empty field, the boundaries of a checkerboard shirt.
The insecurity of straw hands.
Pickett fences to the feet of crows,
Still she'd visit often.
Distance cut short by dark heavy wings.
She'd caw in my silence,
Not knowing the ability to smile I stood against purpose.
She refused to run, poking fun at my hat.
The clothes that hung loosely in the wind, scurf tied tightly around my neck.
Feeling her ***** the strings of my chest.
Strands of straw filled by her need to find a home.
Was there anything there at all before that moment.
Becoming shelter to the way she pried.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 7:11 AM UTC
She has a way of tormenting you
In every direction you try take
She gives you a curfew
Hoping, probing, that you, too, slip through the cracks.
I wanted to be a astronaut
To explore the universe
To find my destiny
Through the black hole
And out
Spaghettified or not
When my now cuffed-mind
Soared the air
With wings dispersed in the wind
Still when she didn't care
And thought I was harmless
She tried shooting me down
And got one through a wing
Now I think I want to be an accountant
Mediocre and sane
But who wants to have sanity
When you can be in it?
So I crashed into Hyperion
And as high as I am
She still sends her vicious winds
To try and cut me down
But her torment crafts precious stones
So in the interim
I'll hold on
Hoping that I can un-cuff my mind
Keeping a birds-eye view
Like a leopard waiting for its ****
So that one day
I can glide the universe
Wings distributed out wide
Skillful and experienced
So she can never shoot me down
Now
Perched on Hyperion
Patient and vigilant
I wait
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
In My Salad Days
Salad Days
**Wikipedia:
Modern use, especially in the United States, refers to a person's heyday when somebody was at the peak of his/her abilities, not necessarily in that person's youth.**
~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Salad
Hints of tints of golden
pear skins,
combine with
ruby'd cranberries
each a face, the cheeks of alcoholic old men,
each wrinkle,
a life's recording.
All are mates for the
marcona almonds
nestling, playing hide n' go seeking
tween silk sheeted leaves of
butter lettuce.
All dressed to the nines,
underneath a top hatted, cravatted, Fred Astaire
marinade.
Coated, bathed, loved,
protected by a vinegar of balsams,
aged grape must, pressed,
a lovely, desirable color,
a brown and bronzed rust,
pressed, then left,
to easy rest for
oh so many years,
like I do, easy resting,
when you feed me in
My Salad Days.
The Days
Though it was a life, decades destructed
Millenniums of de minimus,
Forty plus Seders of exile, of hell,
Marked by promises, whispers, horseradish tears of
Next Year and Jerusalem,
Time steeped in a tradition of patient waiting.
Each year, recorded by a spot of red wine
Purposely Spilled,
By my father on unbleached Passover tablecloth,
To example, to symbolize that
Messiness in life,
Is O.K.
The Salad Days
Salad served with irony generous,
When beard greyed and scraggly,
White speckled, wisps of sea salt,
All my youthful greenery, long wilted.
Yet the words herein writ are my
Afikomen, my just dessert,
My victory song of Hallelujah
Just before we eat, celebrating
My Feast of Ascension, marking a
Delayed Arrival, yet right-on time of
My Salad Days.
It was only when
I was resurrected as two bodies,
A pair of cuffed links coupled,
In My Salad Days,
With the taste of freedom,
A first-born infant survivor,
Was I rebirthed, and to the fore, risen.
When words fell from smiling lips, and
Rain and tears flew upwards, and
Each and every breath was an
Amen.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 1:44 PM UTC
There’s an assembly in the making
and the suits are all shuffling in for the big event
making way to their front row seats
****** in nose
hanky in hand
and all colorfully draped
in those cuffed pin stripes
and Jerry Garcia ties
*now what would the Grateful Dead
or any of their fine entourage
have to say about this foul routine?*
Apropos of that
they’re talking in the 3rd person
with tight syllables
and wavy hands
and all taking a run
at the state of the union
there’s Valentino
and Freddie
and good old Sal
"look....their fiddling with their nuts!"
cries a layman from the balcony seats
the Yin and the Yang
have got even the most liberal minded
scratching their heads
as questions fly in from the field:
*don’t you know the way it used to be?
have you no morals?
which way to the exit!?*
These front row fanatics
have surely been scrimmaging
in the corn fields
all down in that classic 3 point
watching their weight
with sample selections from the
Spicy House and Yaas Bazaar
as members of the congregation look on with envy
*pass the aperitif...the big ***** lady is on deck!*
Union heads are running rogue
loading up on grievances
and lines
passing files at a make shift pew
jumping the bunkers
and stepping on clams
while the orderlies move in
for governance
It’s a bewildered state
and only for the mind of the rigorous
Jimmy D would say:
“it’s nothing you pussy...to the victor goes the spoils!
everyone has a bit of good you know...
you just have to find it!"
Unrest is growing in the ranks
and the masses are unstable
Time to hammer down
with a formidable brace
and two tick play
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC
The raged little blue eyed girl had so many years
from her past she has cried many tears
sitting on a bench with her dog Spot at her side
hair not comb wearing cuffed up hole's in my farmer jeans
Mother yelling, hold still for the picture or you know what I mean.
I sat very still with Spot at my side
knowing she was not happy nor satisfied
Please Mamma, why can't I have a pretty dress?
and look like a little girl like all the rest
I jumped off the bench with Spot at my side
The picture wasn't taken and again unjustified
I was punished and locked in the shed
Spot was laying out side the door
we were both looking through the crack in the floor
I could see him he could see me,
Felt like I was lock there for eternity,
If Spot was only human he could set me free
I'm locked up like a animal and he could be me
Laying cold on the old wooden floor,
Spot don't leave me, don't leave me no more
When I get older I'm going to run away some day
Take spot and find a home far away
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 10:50 AM UTC
.
*Links in the chemist chain
laced in a double helix
defy the laws of the universe,
and the atavistic resurgence
creates isotopes of dream passion.
Elements conspire in panic
with a symmetry of casual chaos
that mimics an atomic bomb,
destroying its own creator
in a cruel parody of birth paradox.
Arresting the Iris of Dissolution
with cuffed anxiety drowning
in a pond of helium ore,
carelessly drifting on acid flesh,
coagulating in a soup of memory.*
And the paradigm shifts again,
reality unfocussed clears, strains,
revealing your shuddering form,
next to me, keeping me warm.
Lids flicker and you open your eyes,
shining, smiling in cute surprise.
Moving my finger up to my lips
whilst I gently untangle our hips.
*Do you remember this night?
Last night, tonight, tomorrow night?
Time begins to slowly rewind,
on the night you blew my mind.*
My essence is filled with your heart,
a love I have yet to discover.
Whilst you wander between the stars,
my universe starts to recover.
So please don't break this silence now.
Please don't shatter this moment long,
I want this post ****** memory to remain
in the morning when you have gone.
© Pagan Paul (04/11/17)
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 7:59 AM UTC
the trouble lies
in your thighs
plump skin, of pink, apricot, nutmeg
fresh flesh fetched far
taught to knee, cuffed at ankle
red carpet to round hips
they ripple, as you stomp
as they should
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear tree house
she is a willow girl
her legs, they wind
country lanes that slim and thin
less lard, longer length
one music note to pink, apricot, nutmeg toes
pillars under sacred, upholding
the light twist of hips
is there the same problem
does it there lie
in that girl's thighs?
your thighs are equally moulded
pink, apricot, nutmeg
soft and plump and trembling, still
in mountains, or molehills
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear house
she is a willow tree girl of birch place
together, women
you have thighs
and neither of
those thighs
lies
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
a magician never reveals their
tricks to the joker is what you’d
told you that sunday night last
september as you had sloppily
crashed into a river and made
both of our cold bones shiver.
we both knew this was not a
typical drive down the road
because you had broken the
moral code and would soon
be toad while i lay with still
bones and a frantic call home
on a stretcher in the back of
an ambulance with hands
holding my body together
as you asked the police to
give you a moment so you
could have a breather and
a smoke or two because
you knew you were through.
they asked if you wanted to
leave me alone and head
down to the police station
and you just shrugged like
this was not your creation
because your court costs
were more expensive than
the knowledge of my pain
and i wished I had caught
that last sunday night train
instead of drinking with you
in the rain and making fog
against the window pane.
i was told not to move as
i waited for the helicopter
and you were pushed up
against the side of a cop
car and cuffed with angry
resistant will and the tears
spilled down hard and fast
from your pretty little face
because for once i would
not save your ****** ***
and get you out of this gory
mess that had turned your
sunday best into a disgrace
and made my bones buckle
and cry out for some rest
for they had been pressed
and strained under the now
drowned window pane with
blood creating a vivid stain.
your head ducked down as
you were pushed into the back
of the car and you glanced up
to see my motionless mangled
body watching from afar.
how’s that for a date night?
you laughed as the tube
down my throat made me
cough and the police officer
gave you a stern look before
slamming the door on your
smirking face so hard that
the car shook like my body
did with hollow echoing sobs
that made my eyes run like the
river that had made both of us
shiver as you had claimed that
the joker would always deliver
even if the magician would not
reveal their spells for the joker
had his own secret way to hell.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
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Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Like the last fire ember keeping is warm
For it is our only chance to survive
Fading
Like a generation of people
Killing rather than nurturing
Fading
Like a little boy's life
Running away from his future
As his past haunts him
And he cannot escape
Fading
Substance is the only way for him to get away
Pain is the only emotion he feels
Fading
Physical abuse wearing him down
Weeping his way to sleep
Fading
Food doesn't come often
Blatant neglect turns to crime
Fading
Empty, cuffed in the backseat
On the road to his new life
Fading
Jumpsuits were his only wardrobe
Though 3 meals a day were beneficial
Fading
In need of substance once again
Craving was intended this time
Fading
Lying there, cold
No more pain to feel now
Fading
As the sun behind the ocean
New life beyond the clouds
Fading
Like footsteps on the shore
Never to come back again
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 3:07 PM UTC
Who else felt the night coming off the tracks,
When we first stepped into that crowded, 1 bedroom apartment,
For the 21st birthday of a guy we knew (his friends, we didn't)?
Strangers derailed and built up drunken tension.
That settled once he found the smoke,
You found the beer,
And I brought the ***
I know my regrets.
But do you still enjoy the white line you crossed...
Off the counter top,
Before we left for IHop?
You hit me, held my hand, and made me promise in the stall,
(where I held your hair just last week)
That I won't tell.
I won't.
We loaded up in the car to go back,
But got stopped along the way.
Two pipes, one baggie, and an open container later...
Maybe birthday boy became a man,
Sometime between when he got cuffed...
And when he apologized.
Was it just me or....
Were the State Troopers cutest when they lined us girls up,
Looked at us,
And let us go?
Just in time for Mother's Day.
May 14, 2012
May 14, 2012 at 2:31 AM UTC
My horoscope told me that I should think creatively today. It told me that I should write and so here I am, attempting to write a poem.
Little does my horoscope know that my mind is unable to function.
"Write something clever! You will create something great!" My horoscope instructs me but unfortunately that task is easier said than done, but I try because I want to fit in. All the cool kids are doing it.
However, nothing but loud noises come out and the writing police come to get things under control.
My brain has been arrested for causing a public disturbance.
Writers block has taken over. It is a cell block in my mind where all of my creative ideas have been cuffed, thrown into a corner, and forced to *** with rusted metal bars offering no privacy.
It's humiliating.
As I sit in my little jail cell I think about what I've done and how I could never come back here again.
"Next time," my brain tells me, "Don't listen to your horoscope."
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
they've been involving themselves
in all sorts of corrupt deals
and the ICAC
is calling them in
to give accounts
of their underhanded deals
many Labor politicians
have fronted to tell their tales
so have ****** figures
who've left not so tidy trails
the head of the commission
is apprising himself
with the corruption stealth
the shady deals
the money exchanges
those fine upstanding
legislators
caught in the net
rife these practices
have been...
and in time
they've been seen to be
not so clean
dossiers on those
who've had their hands
in the defrauding game
shall have them
well cuffed
and they'll only
have themselves to blame
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC
Oh my mistress of the night,
I am but a dog upon your site,
oh my mistress wont you walk me? beat me raw when I am naughty?
Your hair is long and full of stars,
pleas share them with me, choke me hard.
Bow wow I say when I am cuffed, Oh Luna my dear I like it woof.
Snap your whip and make me swoon
make me howl up at your moon
but if I've howled unto your liking, let me mount you like a viking.
Dec 23, 2012
Dec 23, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
I'm not one for these new times
I guess I belong in the past
Time once went by slowly
Now, it goes too fast
I don't know facebook
I don't tweet
In fact I don't know what that means
I belong in yesteryear
When men still cuffed their jeans
I guess I'm just an old school fool
An old school fool, that's me
I guess I'm just an old school fool
That's what I'm proud to be
I guess I'm just an old school fool
The good times now are gone
No one wants an old school fool
I guess that I will just move on
I don't get the music now
There's no song I like to hear
I'd rather sit and read a book
Or watch tv with a beer
Technology is far beyond
What my mind can take in
I do not use an atm
Because I do not know my pin
I guess I'm just an old school fool
An old school fool, that's me
I guess I'm just an old school fool
That's what I'm proud to be
I guess I'm just an old school fool
The good times now are gone
No one wants an old school fool
I guess that I will just move on
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
No,
not short poems.
honest to goodness
short shorts,
jean-like short shorts.
No,
not those kinds that
the young girls wear,
jean lookalike stretch fabric,
skin so tight it makes
their ole daddies' faces
wince the same color blue.
in the middle muddle of fall,
now you write of short shorts?
Well, I was told I could not write this
till after the summer was final gone
from the rear view mirror glass.
Once I wrote/imagined about
a woman of a certain age,
who emptied her armoire drawers,
time to transition and take things
that could no longer be,
to the thrift shop,
for others to be
thrifty in.
Except for one bathing suit,
a two piece back from the days,
when two pieces meant
you were proud
of what you had and
what you didn't have -
the same suit she was
wearing grabbing her little son,
then a man of six or seven,
(now a dad with a son,
of three or six or seven),
in the photo on the night table,
some thirty dreams ago.
Man you take a long time to make a point!
what's all this got to do with short shorts?
one summer day,
a woman I know,
an actual
fire-breathing dragon,
went thru the drawers
of her ***** blonde armoire.
there she "found" a pair of
shorts shorts, from some
thirty dreams ago.
it did not take
too much encouragement,
just a little courage
to try them on,
thirty dreams later.
now these short shorts
were the old fashioned kind,
they look liked cut off jeans
but were not, they had rolled up
cuffed bottoms to increase the illusion.
They no longer fit!
Yup.
******* short shorts were
loose
around that curvaceous waist,
known as my favorite place.,
where I rested my head once again,
after,
we celebrated.
that is my poem about short shorts
that I've been carrying round
until the curfew was lifted.
but even tho I like short shorts,
I'll never ask someone to wear them,
risking scorn and mockery,
but I know for a fact,
those short shorts did not
get thrown out.
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
The beach swept away in the distance,
The tide as far out as could be,
A couple were laughing and playing there,
She’d cuffed him, in fun, to a tree,
‘Now that isn’t fair, Isabella,’
He’d laughed, as she danced in the sand,
‘You’re going to be mine, Richard Andrew Devine
Or forever be tied to the land.’
She taunted and teased and annoyed him,
He said, ‘I just want to be free!’
She spun on the sand and she held out her hand
And she laughed as she dangled the key.
‘You can stay ‘til I hear your proposal,
It’s like squeezing out blood from a stone,
If you fail to propose, this relationship’s closed
And I’ll leave you out here on your own.’
‘We’ve talked about this, Isabella,
And you know it can’t possibly be,
I’m already wed, when you came to my bed…
For God’s sake, just throw me the key!’
‘You know that you’ve never been happy,
With her, or with all of her friends,
It’s time you got rid of the lot of them,
It’s time you were making amends.’
‘I said at the start, Isabella,
That a fling was the most it could be,’
A shadow passed over his worried brow
As he looked at the incoming sea.
‘That might have been in the beginning,
But you know it’s gone further than that,
I’m having your child, did you know, in a while
And I’ll not have you leaving me flat.’
The sweat had burst out on his fevered brow
As the water encroached on the sand,
‘Did you know we’re beneath the high water mark,
In an hour or so, I’ll be drowned!’
‘The choice becomes yours, you must get a divorce
Or I’ll just walk away and be free.
There’s no going back, I’m determined in that,
I’ll be walking away with the key.’
The sea was beginning to lap at his feet,
And she to retreat as it came,
Then suddenly she was beginning to sink
While crying that he was to blame.
In seconds she’d sunk in the sand to her waist
In terror she cried, ‘Rescue me!’
But he was restrained by a half inch of chain,
‘For God’s sake, just throw me the key!’
‘How do I know that you won’t walk away
And just leave me to sink in the sand?’
‘I wouldn’t do that, just throw me the key
Or we’ll both become part of the land!’
She’d sunk to her shoulders at this point in time
And she struggled to pull out her arm,
Then raised it on high and she let the key fly
As they both held their breath, in alarm.
‘I’ve told her I want a divorce,’ he cried,
As the key fell just short of his reach,
‘And I lost the baby a week ago,’
She cried, to her neck in the beach.
They stared at each other as she sank from sight
Then the water rose over his head,
As a little gold key, was swept by the sea
To a hand that was already dead.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC