Hello,I’m forty nine.
All I do is whine.
And stand on lines.

and unknot twine

I wanted to give some new classes

On algebraic sextets.

I wanted some new spectacles

For  teaching babes who’re vexed.

I wanted new geometry

And some Riemann astronomy

For you to be  futile with at  tea.

So it’s now goodbye from  all  and me.

Binomial theorems ain’t no game

I don’t know your preferred name.

Do you love me,just the same?

I’ m foxy now,yet tame.

I want fifty people

to read my blog today.

Because I’m only fifty short

Of getting my M.A.

But what do readers want to see

On this poetry blog?

I guess I do not know that

I’m blundering through fog!

I write about the birds at play,

I write about the o  sky.

I write about  Election day.

I  scheme to get a high.

I wonder when I’ll reach my goal,

I wonder if I’ll care at all,

I need to write of sex and love.

When will my sweetheart call?

I’m growng subtly paranoid

As no-one looks at me.

Can I do a  dead broadcast

On the BBC?

Do you want to know my fantasies?

Do you see inside my mind ?

Well.why not see inside your own,

If you desnare yourself some time.

Well,I shall mail a pot of tea,

And do  a hand job on my knee.

It won’t be on , I said,  your B.B/C,.

I have not got a royal  licence ,see?

Goodbye fame,

Goodbye   name

Goodbye all  econometricians

Telling lies with statisticians.

I am leaving town today.

Please go out that e way.

There’s little here to fancy for

I ain’t writin’ poetry no more.

I ain’t drawing sketches now

But……………………………..I love you anyhow.!

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Stress Relief Techniques: Take Charge of Your Life: “- Sent using Google Toolbar”

    There was no way I could miss,
The smile in your eyes when we kissed.
I think you’re divine
And we’re getting on fine.
But please don’t wipe your nose on my dress!

You love my shining blue eyes ,
And the strange way my poetry rhymes .
I  do like your smell,
Though I still cannot tell,
If it’s  cologne or just  dirt,sweat and grime.

I love your weird sense of humour
And the way your love spreads like a rumour.
Shall we get wed,
And then go to bed?
Or shall I run away with the  new French  piano tuner?