Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Edna Sweetlove Dec 2014
Yesterday and today and again tomorrow
Regrets build up from day to day
To the last moment of my waning life
And all my yesterdays have guided me
Towards my longed for death, so *******, brief candle.

Life's just a passing sideshow, poor interval
To fill in the time between TV shows and football -
So pass another beer - life's just a ragged tail
Wagged by an idiot, it's **** and *** and ***** -
And then there's **** all left.

Know you whichever tempestuous idiot declar'd
O wonder how many goodly creatures are there here
And how beautious whining mankind be?
O brave new ******* pointless world
That has such people in't or some such futility
Needeth yet her brains examining forsooth
And has ne'er seen Wolverhampton ill-lit by moonlight.
These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th’ unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve prov’d it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov’d it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene’s a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar’d her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang’d the place of declaration.
In Italy, I’ve no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we’ve done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
‘There’, we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac’d in all th’ Arcadian groves,
That ever witness’d rural loves;
‘Then’, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I’ll be content to freeze;
No more I’ll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after.
Carl Hylands Dec 2020
Okay...okay... maybe I got a little emotional,  maybe devotional, crying out a sound that might mean nothing to you.  Why's this guy making such a racket? Well let me put it this way,  its like opening an bag of fish and chips only to see it fall out of the packet... boo-hoo , on the ground... sometimes you cry, some times you move on a declar everything is sound... like pound. you know one quid, loose change,  a poor man's chance on a roulette grid. I bet on 9...sorry , house wins, why are you wasting time? Maybe you should move to America and try those dimes but its still wasting time . Because when you're dreaming its a crime of the mind... a false find... just like on Facebook when people keep sharing the same old **** time after time... like cyndi lauper,  gotta show those true colours ,count dollars because I've always gotta bail out my mind... remember? For that crime? Yet I move on try to forget the things I try to remember, but I still remember to forget things that make hate this life of mine. Move on repurchase those fish and chips this time adding on all kinds of dips. Making it larger, Xl there's no wrong and right, no heaven or hell... but there's this ****** up rat race called love and we all have a story to tell.

— The End —