“Lord have mercy,”
you dolefully sigh,
your song awaiting
my reply.
”Have Mercy on me,”
each chord explains,
your baby is lost
and torn heart pains.
With tired feet
I softly croon
my dark agreement,
a bluesy tune.
I stir my cocoa –
a condoling toast –
and welcome you in
as your lonely host.
Suspended in your
mournful zephyr,
I bear the wounds
you’ll always suffer,
the Atlas burden
that breaks your back,
your scarlet letter
weathered black,
and offer you
my own lament
of how my stormy
Monday went.
Then, like a
wing-footed Gabriel,
he sings his
holy madrigal.
With merciful swiftness
my beloved appears,
and whispers,
”Darling, I am here,”
Then our duet becomes
one person less,
As I am
undone
with
happiness.
tried to follow the rhyme scheme of "the mother's loathing of balloons." Not half as effective as A.E. Stallings, but i will cross my fingers that she considers pathetic imitation to be flattery.