The primitive life is a lure –
Simplistic – where troubles seem fewer.
A naive romance
With primeval chance,
And living it – that is the cure.
Frau Merkel has opened the gate.
Do you think you can stop them? – too late!
Once they are inside
They will patiently hide
Then divide at a logarithmic rate.
They are selling the milk far too cheap!”
So blusters the ruddy-faced creep.
“And it isn’t our fault!”
‘It’s entirely yours, dolt!
As you sow, stupid, so shall you reap.’
[someone made me do this – they know who they are. A challenge to use 10
particular obsolete words in a poem – needs polish I know.]
In the sun’s soft rays do I apricate;
Was yestreen, my love, that I stayed up late.
‘Twill be overmorrow before I rise
When I’ll miss the gaze of your almond eyes.
Your anagapesis for me I know,
And that loss of love, it has brought me low.
Would you, from your hair, cut a golden lock,
As a memory. (for your ex-bawcock)
But I fear I sound like a blatteroon;
Like an aeolist who bays at the moon.
As a madman strolls in the midnight dew,
And with walking stick does the toads spanghew,
Now potvaliant, in the grip of drink,
Satisdiction done – into sleep I sink.
The best golfer God ever made.
He conquered each course with his blade.
An honourable man;
He backs Donald’s plan.
Another knight joins the crusade.