Seven Random Rhymes
To tell the truth,
I don't get any
or just a penny:
I need a stash
of endless cash,
five hundred mil
of peace and still.
I'd really love
three hours a night
where I sleep tight.
Can't turn to booze
to help me snooze;
I'd add on ills
with sleeping pills,
so, what to do?
coffee at two?
breakfast at four?
before I snore
at sun's first shine
to well past nine.
My Daisy Duck, my stroke-of-luck
my That's All Folks cartoon,
my cuppa joe, my New Year snow,
my slackjawed plenilune:
if you were cute, I'd kiss your boot
and call you Mistress Mine;
I'd shout "j'adore!" and kneel before
your countenance divine.
You're the top!
You're a song by Ella.
You're the top:
I'm a wacky fella.
You're the pick-me-up
in my morning cup of joe:
you're a sadness-killer,
you're a Hitchcock thriller,
You've got spark and spirit.
And your voice,
how I love to hear it!
I'm excited now
and I don't know how to stop!
I'm a silly sappy songster ---
you're the top!
A well-known fact, reliably observed:
our pains in life are never quite deserved.
But those who bear them with a patient heart
have learned a most revitalising art.
My prosody is groggy. Mea culp:
I need some orange juice, with lots of pulp.
If I were seventeen and you were forty,
My thoughts would be immoderately naughty.
But you're seventy-four, I'm fifty-one;
We're both too tired to think of having fun.
Apart from shameless banter we exchange,
The notion of a fling seems rather strange.
Out of the question? Certainly! My word.
(Still, matches more improbable have occurred.
Unlikely things do sometimes come about.
This statistician's learned: Rule nothing out!)
You overwhelm me with your style and grace:
The sun was made to shine upon your face.
Poetry by Thomas D
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Written on 2020-12-30 at 16:17
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