"maud" poems
Rocks; these are my rocks.
Sediments: make me sedimental.
Smooth and round, asleep in the ground.
Shades of brown and gray abound.
~Maud Pie
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 7:09 AM UTC
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, 'There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.'
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine.'
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
3.2k
She came to me at Calvados,
A single night, without repeat.
The woman of my soul’s love longing,
to consummate with kisses sweet.
She entered in my midnight room
a simple pastel shift she wore
Smiling as she bared her shoulders,
the garment dropping to the floor.
So beautiful, this child of Gonne,
to this poet’s bleary eyes.
How often I had praised, in print,
her auburn hair and hazel eyes.
I was silent, she as well,
neither keen to break the spell.
She kissed me deeply on the lips
just as the stroke of midnight fell.
Her fingers deeply in my hair
she brought me to her freckled chest.
I licked and nibbled at one ******
like a baby at her breast.
She mounted me, her Rocinante,
and slowly, we began our quest.
My Willie in warm velvet wetness
wrapped as I returned her thrusts.
In spirit, we belonged together.
In truth,she’d wed another man.
A brute who’d tried to **** her sister.
She, too, had suffered at his hand.
As we played, she bent to kiss me
sweet Celtic sweat was in her hair
In another life she’d been my sister.
In this life’s love war all was fair.
She gave out with a little cry
as she took my Willie deep.
we came in unison so sweetly
but quietly, her child was asleep.
I remember, one time, Maud had asked
what type of bird I’d like to be?
Back upon the hills at Howth
when we were young and both still free.
“I think”, I said,” I’d be a gull,
playing at the shore for free.
Soaring high above the water
taking my living from the sea.”
Now we lay here in Calvados
near the town Colleville sur Mer
Her villa was named “Les Mouettes”
For one night only, we coupled there.
It is rumored that, in the Summer of 1907, William Butler Yeats and Maud Gonne shared physical intimacy for the one and only time in their lives. He the famous Poet and Playwright, she the famous Irish nationalist.
At the time she was separated from John MacBride, but they had not divorced, being Catholic. Yeats had a belief in reincarnation and both had, at times, dabbled in the occult. See also my poem
" Making Iseult"
The child asleep in the adjoining room would be Sean MacBride, later in life a Nobel peace prize winner.
Les Mouettes is French for "the (Sea)gulls."
I have read that Yeats wrote a love poem about this night, but that it has been lost. This is my attempt to replicate that lost love poem.
I thank Patrick McFarland for helping me revise the original version of the poem. His suggestions improved the flow of the piece.
.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 8:39 AM UTC
I'm from the land of candy, which is as rare as gold.
I'm from the land where fruits are our desserts and rice is a must.
I'm from the land where cheese is a treat and milk is banned.
I'm from the land where determination is my Parliament Building,
The Library is my City Hall,
Technology is my Plaza,
And Music is my Town Square.
I'm from the land where Math is our School,
Lucy Maud Montgomery is our teacher,
And Creativity are our Artists.
I'm from the land of pine-smelling air and strokes of sunburn.
Where laughter is heard at every corner.
I'm from the land of a Dominating Dad and a Mature Mom.
I'm from the land of a Busy Brother whom is somewhat caring.
I'm from the land which changes constantly,
Hot and Cold,
And is always forgetful.
I'm from the land where Pheonix Wright is our King and Meg Cabot is our Princess.
I'm from the land where friends are our special jewels,
And family is priceless.
I'm from the land where my valuables are my memories
And I'm still collecting them.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 1:29 AM UTC
Beautiful lofty things; O'Leary's noble head;
My father upon the Abbey stage, before him a raging crowd.
"This Land of Saints", and then as the applause died out,
"Of plaster Saints"; his beautiful mischievous head thrown back.
Standish O'Grady supporting himself between the tables
Speaking to a drunken audience high nonsensical words;
Augusta Gregory seated at her great ormolu table
Her eightieth winter approaching; "Yesterday he threatened my life,
I told him that nightly from six to seven I sat at this table
The blinds drawn up"; Maud Gonne at Howth station waiting a train,
Pallas Athena in that straight back and arrogant head;
All the Olympians; a thing never known again.
1.8k
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
1.6k
I saw Stewart and Maud under a locust tree in Kensington market.
They had new bicycles. She leaned her sweaty, curly head on his bicep.
They had baguettes, flowers, asparagus and apples from the farm booths in their packs,
Buzet and Minervois from the liquor store, library books. They had life-loving things.
He says that for him this new life is instead of being an artist in Paris:
Backpacks, bicycles, the look of young lovers. The little possessions
That don't feel like a car or a house. They are wearing bright white t shirts
And denim overalls. His children are confused. They have little money.
He joined the many who have refused to be punished for a mistake.
My friend Stewart lives with a university student.
You get to their Annex apartment up iron stairs bolted to the
Outside of a building of old brick coloured like a driftwood campfire. The bed's iron.
She's been an adult for seven years. Iron, bricks, flowers, white iron bed,
Stewart has the skills to make it good, he's done this before, made the Muskoka
Chairs, the harvest tables, and sold them, repaired window frames and doors,
Advertised in supermarkets. He likes to breathe, to drink water, to cut wood and dress it,
To study, to read, to live well with a woman, to write in the evening, to make life like art.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
When you walked out the pub doors
On a sea of tears and last embraces,
The town stood still.
You broke my heart,
Set it back into place
So that I could feel again.
I was amongst the grown men
Turning backs on each other,
Wrangling our hair,
Pacing the floor,
Until we could not hold back
The occasion any longer.
I know when my plane comes
There will be brief handshakes,
Warm, worn smiles
Fastened from the heat
You gave so generously
To a town that grew cold
In your departure.
You taught us that kindness is enough.
Now rejoicing in private sobs,
Return of feeling for someone else.
This town we complained about,
Until you moved each man to song.
French lessons over the ashtray,
Anecdotes and private jokes
As far as the ear could hear.
I remember when the chemicals took over
And you danced in the sunglass shade
Of a darkened room.
Your energy bounced off the walls,
A pink-noise that echoed as I came down,
Nestled on my shoulder, totemic,
As I fought the speed, tried to sleep.
Beer bottles remained, the splintered ends
That serve as proof for last night’s fireworks.
You always made sure we were safe.
Our chance encounter,
Brief moments which collide,
Leaving marks,
Etching names
Onto stone that cannot wear away.
You taught me that sea of strangers
Is not a place to drown,
Just an avenue towards new land.
You could drink all the time
And it would not consume you.
Get stuck on a blue mood
And still leave your slumber,
Wide-eyed and hopeful for balance.
You left us standing in the rain
Our minds a roulette wheel,
Scattering between goodbye and farewell.
I guess I did not understand the stakes
Until you walked out of those pub doors.
I guess I had forgotten what loss meant,
Those years running from the blade of love
That cuts so finely the line
Of grief and glory.
I am bleeding here.
I am not sure when it will stop.
I am feeling again.
Thank you, friend.
Thank you.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
It was chilly in the house of stone
where the body of Maud’s son
had been interred the year before.
(Her first born had died young.)
Her lover was a Frenchman,
Maud Gonne was her name.
She was, of course, a famous muse-
as William Butler’s flame.
She let down her golden hair
and her clothing came undone.
Lucien lay a blanket down
on the gravestone of their son.
She lay her naked beauty down
and took a passive role--
convinced the child conceived that night
would have her dead son’s soul.
Mystic occult spirits danced
as mortal flesh entwined.
Lucien spasmed flush with lust
Maud called on the Divine.
In course of time a girl was born
a child of beauty rare
But that she held her brother’s soul
none can, for sure, declare.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
Searching through the archives
of - my family tree.
Struggling through the mislaid vaults
of ge-ne-ology.
Personal contemplation
on what might come to light.
With so much work before me.
I study through the night.
Lines that take me nowhere
all scramble through your head
but curiosity pushes you
as you study - the 'long' dead.
Suddenly things come to a light,
new relation leads
that push you through the lonely night
and sow so many seeds.
Will it be - Maud Plantaginet
who'll set me to the stars
a Sir, an Earl or Baroness
all Great Grandpa's or Ma's.
A close link to a Tudor King
of whom it's often said
that if he doesn't fancy you,
you could well lose your head.
Henry Three, Henry Two,
King John and Henry One.
Many times Great-Granddads
and the list - goes on and on.
William the Con-queror
and someone very quaint,
Ma-tilda Von Ringelheim,
she's an - Eigth Century Saint.
Has all the work been paying off?
Will the journey - be of worth?
For who knows who - we're related too
who has also walked this earth
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 6:54 PM UTC
When I was young, sometimes I’d forget
to be afraid of the Jabberwocky.
I’d skip along beside his emerald-wet
scales, on the sun-strewn sidewalk, me
prattling on about apple ciders
and Lucy Maud Montgomery,
half-humming boats and spiders
beneath a pale sky, dry and summery,
and he would lumber, unsteady, by my side,
trudging heavily through wild glens
till the dusk at long last turned to night
and I remembered his name once again.
Mar 13, 2020
Mar 13, 2020 at 10:54 PM UTC
Her name is Amanda,
Like mine!
Though I prefer to go by Mandy.
Amanda Taylor, believe it or not,
You can't deny it. We're good friends.
Though you may not like full metal,
And though you can bore the heck out of me!
You will be my best friend.
I know, the inseparable friend I had in second grade,
Was really nice and oh so cool,
but she moved on.
Yeah, you may not be so popular,
But you're my best friend.
And nobody's going to change that.
For your dry humor,
Nice smiles,
And nerdy conversations,
Thank you.
For your independence,
Smart style,
And your loyalty to me.
You may be Maud Pie in real life,
But you're my clique,
My clique of twenty three.
Yeesh, I have a lot of friends!
Come join with me!
(Thank you for being my friend)
Mandy aka Pleasure.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
We don't have time to live,to die or even give living a try,so what's it all about and why or what are we here for anyway?
In the year dot when God had a soft spot for Adam and Eve who didn't believe in anything at all and before Eve's fall from grace,there was a place to be in harmony and not some grotty dump like today where we pump our misery,carried away by tanker truck and no one seems to give a,
hard luck story's ten a penny.
Where are you Maud?
we came into the garden at three and now it's time for afternoon tea,has it come to pass that you'll be found in the long grass with some son of a gun?
'come into the parlour' said the fly,I don't know why because fly's don't talk and neither do I.
I walk through dormitories thinking long bed rows of stories and sleep in paper boats which float me on high seas,high teas,no Maud.
Which all amounts to diddly squat,slightly more than what I've got and what I've seen,
but I have been to London and I have seen the Queen who stole the tarts,while Jack was busy stealing young girls hearts,
and all my life is one cartoon,one dimension,oh but soon, there are inventive men who'll wrap me round a reel again and off I'll go.
A push and pull me,random figure on a top,spinning circles into carpets 'til I stop and pop goes one more weasel,
written on the board in chalk which in turn is stood upon the,Lord have mercy,save me from this nourishment,
Maud lent me her key,where is Maud? it's time for tea.
The men in coats come down for me,they're as nice as nice as nice men can be and work in the infirmary attached to the asylum.
I'll be back.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:49 AM UTC
Racing down the corridor past doors with
numbers I don't see,
past people who would rather be
anywhere else than
in the hall with me.
These sweating faces, dripping hands, fingers
filed with golden bands in jewellers drawers,
down and in more corridors where faded pictures
***** their looks, past the racks of dusty books which
no one reads,
more beads of sweat
I'll get there yet or in the evermore
and another corridor.
Who makes these things?
who brings the corridors to entertain
me and the ******
The pictures look at me with eyes, I
once mistook as being full of piety but
devilry is braided in their frames.
What names they call as I race headlong
down the hall.
At the end where all points lend themselves
to what we would prefer
I will no longer race through there, instead
I shall take some air
in the garden
with Maud.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
Love,
Has made me shameless.
I see your face, your car, your dog,
Pointless things that I attribute to you,
But I don't see them,
Not really.
And so I am here,
In the dark, lit up by the blue
Of Facebook on my computer screen.
I hold no shame,
For I am desperate for a sample of you.
I am hungry for you.
This sort of thing I'm doing, kills you inside.
But I need to see you
I need to remember your details,
I can't and won't forget you.
I know you don't do this
To me,
Things I thought were romantic was just friendship,
The weakest of friendship.
I'm just too dumb.
You and me; We pretend
That we're just friends,
Well, maybe you're not pretending,
But I am.
I see you to remind me of you,
The way you crouch over your guitar,
The jut of your chin,
The way your eyes shine,
When I make you happy.
Long, delicate fingers,
The bump in your nose,
Your acne,
Your hair,
The girlish colour of your mouth
That I hoped would touch one day
With my own.
For you, I have not suffered for my art
I have simply suffered.
And all that has come of it are the silliest, the dreamiest of girly love poems.
But I mean every word.
My dear, I've wasted my precious time
I'll let you sing your pithy rhymes
My darling, you've been a fool-
I'm a crazy lady, I'm no light touch-
But so have I.
You're a crazy boy, you're no light touch
You pulled me in with both hands-on
How was I supposed to get out?
Leave your places of worship,
That we share.
Perhaps you were special;
You were just different
But I am integral, and you are temporary.
You're just a friend, I suppose, if that's what I want it to be,
But that's confusing.
We pretend
To be best friends,
But were we really?
All I see, is just me
And you blowing me off,
And me saying to your mother
"Oh no, we're friends, it's fine."
My God,
What a ****** boyfriend you would have made.
What a bullet I dodged!
Darling, it's been ten months,
And we only live once.
Ten months ago,
Maybe I'd think differently.
My dear, perhaps you'll realise
And then, you'll feel
Your head will romanticize it all,
And perhaps you'll write some of your finest love songs,
About a girl, who cared, and cared far too long,
And now she doesn't think twice about you.
Ain't that sad?
I used to like
The idea of being your muse.
Bob Dylan's Suze Rotolo,
WB Yeats' Maud Gonne,
But
I'll be my own muse,
I'll inspire myself.
Life moves with water and sun, not with you.
Because, darling, it's been ten months,
And I
Am
Over you.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:47 PM UTC
The end was nigh, he scanned the sky
For portents, dark and deep,
He’d sensed some troubled signs within
While tossing in his sleep.
He told his wife to pack some things,
The least that they would need,
But she said, ‘You must leave alone,
I’m staying here, God speed!’
He found he couldn’t change her mind,
No matter that he tried,
He told her of the darker times
That he had sensed, inside.
But she was quite content, she said,
‘In fact I’m quite serene,
I shall not run before the tide,
It may be but a dream!’
The Castle walls with hallowed halls
Held shadows grim and bleak,
Where muttered shades from former days
Would flit from moat to keep,
From tower, to hall, to bedchamber,
He cast his nervous eyes,
Where even in the flagstoned floors
He thought, ‘There evil lies!’
The evening skies were tinctured with
A weird orange glow,
And then the Moon rose up above,
A baneful, blood-red show,
While winds that howled like none before
Now clattered at the eaves,
And whispered down the chimney’s core,
‘God help the one that leaves!’
He wandered round the halls at night
And shook in some dread fear,
At sounds of chains, and distant pains
Deep in his inner ear.
He stood up at the battlements
And scanned the dark surround,
Where gargoyles leered, to spout their cheer
All on the hallowed ground.
‘But surely you must hear them, Maud,
They’re plain, so plain to me!’
‘I only hear the chirping bird
That flits in yonder tree.
Perhaps your mind has been disturbed,
You need to rest at night,
I’ll lock you in the Castle Keep
Until your dreams take flight.’
That night, asleep, but fitfully
He heard a horse’s hooves,
That clattered in the courtyard, echoed
With its iron shoes.
And then he heard his wife, who whispered
Like some painted *****
‘He’s almost driven mad, I’ve locked
Him in, and barred the door.’
Then like a charm that runs its course
And sets its victim free,
He knew that she’d been feeding him
With Belladonna tea.
He waited for an hour, and then
Burst hinges on the door,
And sought his wife’s bedchamber
Where her lover felt secure.
‘I told you I’d sensed darker times,
Such darker times, for you!’
He said as he approached the bed
And ran her lover through.
He raised the sword that dripped with blood
Then stood with drooping head,
While she went pale, to no avail,
In moments, she was dead!
David Lewis Paget
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 3:27 AM UTC
It pains me to say that it's raining today, just another hoop to get through, wet through and no umbrella, need a shell, a hood.
a hell of a way to wake when the day's like a lake and you don't fancy swimming.
Women,
ah
women I fancy like,
Joan,
Maud and Nancy make the Sun shine,
but at this time of day they are dreaming away
and it's raining outside.
As wide or as tall or as short
I go on for too long and I know
this is wrong.
In the internet
I have met a friend
silent and knowing
with me to the end
of the contract I made with
the broadband provider.
It's still lashing it down
the rain's still
whipping the ground and
if you listen
you'll hear me
messing around
with the radio.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
I'm not the type
To slip her bra and
******* off for some
One night escapade.
I have more technique,
A woman clean and boutique,
Sophisticated, not some broad
I'm a treasure, something better
Not Mrs **** for your playing with,
I'm not some mistress, not your Maud.
Strip of me of my dignity once shame on me.
Do it again, I will not pretend, I will have to show you the hand
When I leave.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
He pulls on the sweater, unasked for, ill-fitting and probably itchy as hell, but he knows the ritual by now and pulls until his head births and he opens his eyes ready for the chorus of smiles and laughter, but they're not there.
It's dark and the scents and chimes of Christmas are gone, he's spinning and falling in a force 10 gale battered by the sound of breaking waves. So he reaches out for an anchor; his hands sink into a hedgerow, prickly with Hawthorn entwined with Holly, but he can't pull away and the momentum thrusts him forward through the pain into a field of sunflowers which swing their heads to face him, accusing him of trespass. That’s when he becomes aware of distant gun fire and what looks like a star falling towards him. Their heads duck down, forcing him to his knees and he's on all fours, his hands deep in Aunt Maud's **** in front of the fire, his head ringing, shell shocked, shaking and weeping while the family help him up.
- Easy there, Sam, you okay? You look like hell. –
He looks around for his aunt’s face, and she smiles.
- He'll be fine, it sometimes takes us a while after our emergence from Mid Yell. It's my first attempt at a Mid Yell and Ukrainian mohair blend. Bring him some water. Sam dear, have a seat and make sure you come and find me when you want to take it off, but not for a while. You shouldn't Walk the Goat too often, it confuses the soul. –
His siblings stare, full of questions and relief for their scarves as he studiously ignores them, and stares into the fire, shivering, hands prickly, the gun shots resonating in his gut and the aroma of sunflowers filling his head, knowing he needs to find that star.
Dec 27, 2024
Dec 27, 2024 at 5:11 AM UTC
press your forehead on the barrel of hope
put your neck inside the optimist's rope
jump off a bridge, into the warm light below...
...crack your skull on the idea of tomorrow.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 11:40 AM UTC
"I was born with a reading list I will never finish."
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
Fixed upon a
stare
and I dare untie the look.
needlepoints and button hooks
and afternoon spent with Aunt Maud.
She covered up piano legs
and
wrote letters to the press
but,
as mad a box of monkeys
nevertheless.
Down the coach and horses in the 'snug'
with a bottle of stout
easy to get her in there
next to impossible getting her out
and then dear Lord you took Aunt Maud
a mistake you'll come to rue and
when she bends your ear for half a year
you'll not know what to do.
Dec 6, 2016
Dec 6, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC