My girlfriend and I shared a wish
for kettles of wonderful fish.
I told that same darling
I'd long been a starling
a silly as any L'il Gish.

My boyfriend said to me
Let's go out to tea
I just said "NO"
For we are so poor
I'll wait until it is free

I'm fondest of wading in slush
which hints that I'm fashioned of mush.
I daily encumber
all moments with slumber
inviting my heartstrings to hush.

I'm happy to do without snow
I prefer sun wherever I go
The cold is a pain
Which causes much strain
But the sun sets my heart all aglow.

We're weary of traipsing through weather
productive of brilliant green heather.
We might prefer snow
whose first and last blow
invites us to snuggle together.

Once rain falls like mad, we feel soggy
and utterly utterly boggy.
We hop on some stove
and struggle to rove
toward futures both groggy and foggy.

The rain that descendeth in Spain
Falls mainly, they say, on the plain
That sure is a nation
Of discrimination
Cause the pretty receive little gain.

When rain has been falling in Spain,
I whoop like the neighborhood crane.
Huge wetness ensueth
as truth clearly reueth
the depths of some glassy-eyed pane.

Well raining is such a real bore
And it just seems to come down more
S'ppose if I put on wellies
finding puddles up to my bellies
I'd find laughter instead of a snore.

Each ramshackle view of some horrors
that moderate life will wake snorers.
Additional folk
may practice a joke
as right as are multiple scorers.

Demoted from yesterday's heights,
I'm learning to practice my bites.
My senses now foster
no absolute froster
but are as the veriest kites.

I slather on bread jam and jelly
and other things fine for the belly.
Soon much of my being
appears to be skiing
down sloping as tall as a telly.

I find that the trouble with bread
Is it seems just to make me spread
So marge or butter
still adds to the flutter
of inches and pounds needed to shed.

Butter on bread is just fine
I do not like marg spread on mine
Plastic, unhealthy,
Even if I was wealthy
That rich yellow butter would shine.

Some syrup will fashion the flutter
implicit in very sweet butter.
Each rather fine world
is one that has hurled
its measuring cups in the gutter.

As beauty and I went to bed
I told her to care for her head.
(Poor beauty had suffered
a blow quite unbuffered
by anything but extreme dread.)

Each phrasing I mutter or sputter
ends up in some very wet gutter.
I endlessly must
produce deep disgust --
the sort that invites worlds to mutter.

My words seem to get me in trouble
And often my trouble will double
When apologies fail
I often must quail
And look at relationship rubble

All words I employ have their way
of seeming to wake pure dismay.
I sense I'm a speaker
who long was a squeaker
who urged countless hopes to sashay.

words can profit us all
but also be hurtful as well
it's when people speak
with no regard for the squeak
from the listener who feels committed to hell

Delicious were all the brief quips
that left those two lovers' young lips.
The language forever
seemed certain to sever
the world into mountains of whips.

He tried rather hard not to prattle,
yet language remained his main rattle.
He mentioned the fact
some bushes were whacked
by countless fine dogs and fat cattle.

He always tried very hard
But he just couldn't be a bard
he played with a word
It sounded absurd
so far from lyrical talent it was barred.

Jo x

She had perfect knowledge of how
his efforts created a scow.
She sometimes had stated
the news of how dated
were many remarks on a vow.

I'm ready to love you completely,
but you always view me effetely.
You seem rather sure
I've long been a cure
for nothing but living discreetly.