I have been  wondering why the term sin has almost died out in our language and I think  for many of us who were brought up in a very strict version of Christianity it became too painful  for us to think about it.
We were made to feel ashamed  of our failures so much so that we abandon the whole idea of sin.
We don’t know as children that it is very difficult to live without making mistakes and our emotions run away with us so that we hurt other children….
But now looking at the world as it is,maybe it would be better of more adults admitted making dreadful mistakes.And we know  free will may not be as free as we think.But if we accept we do sin then it makes us more tolerant of others around us…If we were perfect it might make us self righteous and judgemental which to me seems a perversion of religion.Yet this is happening  in the world today.
I have read that it is very hard for Catholics,even lapsed one,to be able to  have a successful psychoanalysis because the conscience is so harsh.We cannot easily alter it.
So it is not surprising we don’t like the word sin.
It is interesting that being thought of as sinners means we are quite powerful,If our errors are caused by human weakness it is more painful to see ourselves as weak and vulnerable yet we are.We all need others.

We used to learn from talking to our friends
Our neighbours in communities now gone
Gone too are the preachers and the saints
And there’s gap to fill but how’s that done?

Oh,  buy a tabloid like the  Daily Wail
It’s full of gossip lies , crude images
Like  the words we swapped by village wells
Lies and truth and problems that enraged

Now the people we live by are  who?
We know not of their work,religion,place
We see their faces as they pass at speed
We see no smiles, no love, just a strained face.

There is a gap  but we must keep it clear;
For sometimes grace will  enter, conquering fear

We

Who should speak, which people have a voice?
Can we trust the ones who’ve told such lies
Post-truth, post-God, post meaning, post remorse?

If we’re wounded, who shall give recourse?
Does it matter to them what we’re tortured by?
Who should speak, which people own their voice?

If we hear bad news, what is its source?
See the bodies  hear the babies cry,
Post-truth, post-God, post meaning, post remorse?

Can we spread democracy by force?
Is it still democracy post-war?
Who should speak, which people own their voice?

Which of all the methods is the choice?
What is politics the reason for,
Post-truth, post-God, post meaning, post remorse?

If I speak, will you believe I lie?
The tongues of angels whisper, what of Troy
Who should speak, which people have a voice?
Post-truth, post-God, post meaning, post remorse

https://www.theguardian.com/education/2000/feb/23/tefl2

“Given these difficulties, is poetry worth the effort? What can a good poem offer the language learner that a good newspaper article or authentic dialogue can’t?

The answer has to do with things such as richness of meaning, diversity and ambiguity. In ELT textbooks students are usually presented with oral and written texts whose meaning can be fairly confidently ascertained: these texts have a meaning and you, the learner, can discover it. Poetry is different. The reader is a much more active participant in working out the meaning – or rather the range of meanings – of the text. The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem. The idea that the meaning of a text can vary according to the person reading it will be a new and refreshing one for many students.

A well-chosen poem encourages teachers to ask questions such as, “What do you think this means?” When students realise that “I’m not sure” is an acceptable answer to such questions, a whole new way of thinking about meaning is opened up.

So using poems in class encourages a diversity of views and a healthy debate about meaning. What else? Well, good poems deal with issues and concerns that are important to students – growing up, love and loss, the animal world and our relationship to it, perhaps even (sadly) war and peace.

The key phrase here is “well-chosen”. You’ve got to find poems that are at the right level for your students, both linguistically and in terms of content. This isn’t easy. On the other hand, there’s no point in feeding students an unrelieved diet of whimsy.”

We are little leaves upon the tree
We never did control our tiny worlds
The tree of life; what power, what mystery

With metaphor, it’s easier to see
Life is tender, see each leaf unfurl
We are only leaves upon the tree

Singing in the sun we seem to be
Full of joy until the storm winds swirl
The tree of life; what power, what mystery

Extinguished candles smoke at Tenebrae
We are blown to death however bold
We are little leaves upon the tree

Thus we sacrifice to God uncertainly
Yet as the wars continue, we grow cold
The tree of life; what power, what mystery

Who has dropped us from the hands that hold?
Who has stolen certainty untold?
We are little leaves upon the tree
The tree of life; what power, what mystery

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/144823/a-short-history-of-silence?utm_source=Poetry+Foundation&utm_campaign=4d5329c06e-PMAG_DEC_19_2017&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_ff7136981c-4d5329c06e-185545637

A Short History of Silence

BY JANE YEH

In our house, all the clocks are turned off and the mirrors
Don’t work. We sit like bread in a stay-fresh wrapper,
Keep ourselves to our selves. Sometimes the speeches
Are so beautiful it hurts. On the porch where we can’t be

Seen to smile, the honeysuckle meshes with silent
Weeds. We rock back and forth, back and forth in our long
Black dresses. Mosquitoes taste our blood and find it good.

Inside, candles are lit every night and keep going
Until they burn themselves down. We kiss our fingers
To our lips like Italians, promise we’ll never look back.
Whip-poor-will. When the doorbell rings we don’t answer.

In winter, the fur grows long on the horses and the ice
Grows long on the eaves. We sleep in the same bed
Like good animals, braid our hair together, tailor
Our limbs to fit. Conspiracy of wood.

Source: Poetry (December 2017)

1.Use a cliche in every line
[You can find more cliches by googling£ cliche list”]
2 Try to write in form but fail.
3.Completely ignore the music of the poem
4 Write about something vague and general
5 Make out  you have  a very high opinion of your work
6.Use  out of date  words/phrases like ’twas
7.Use complicated words especially ones you don’t  understand

To his boy mistress:

You are the most  consecutive lover in the world
The sun  has never  gloamed as much as you do
When Cassius and his kin their daggers hurled
You were out of town meeting customers  I once knew

Oh,God, not another cliche attack on Advertising
That  line has more than five beats in it but never mind
Even a Samaritan  might be suicidal
If all their customers were so unkind

And when I dream of you, you are wearing all white clothing
Which  shall boil for you in my slow cooker
Then we shall go roaming in the gloaming.
Maybe we’ ll have a drink with a  few hookers

Iambic pentameter sucks as does the honey bee
This is the  possibly worst poem anyone could ever see

That is  supposed to be the end of verse
But I could invent one a  great deal worse.

To write a bad poem you could write a good one and then make changes to the metre or put in the wrong word here and there.But it seems like work.Maybe some of us can write bad poetry without really trying

You were the centre of my universe
[What is a universe,by the way?]
You were the light in my life
[What about the sun?
You were perfect in every way
{ Name a few definite ones]
So why did you choose me?
[Why, what’s wrong with you?]
Now, you have thrown me away
Seems as  if I am trash
But some folk save the wrong things
Or put them in the wrong wash
[That might be a metaphor]
My washing machine  only works on the rapidest wash
[Good grief, that sounds positive]
Since it’s only 14 minutes,I do it twice
[Why would people want to know this?]
Sometimes I just do rinse and spin
‘But I didn’t realise that was an option at first
[Who cares?]
I am trying to save money so in future I shall just do one
{ why wash them at all, just steam them!]
I love elecricity
{ Is that a metaphor?]
I love gas
[Maybe it’s not]
I’ll cook my angel a roast
{ Do  angels eat?]
A roasted prayer of thanksgiving
{Sounds more  like a threat than a promise]
God will smell the odour
[Not if he doesn’t want to]
God will be happy
[Are you crackers?]
God is neither happy nor unhappy
[Make your mind up.This is  not logic class BTW}
God looks divine
[How can we compare the two?]
I have seen him
[Are you high?]
I don’t know what will happen next but I accept it all
[Very gracious!]
I wish Father Xmas would come tonight
{ Don’t we all?]
And to use a cliche,I love the entire universe.What ever that is!
Is that a bad poem?
Do cows eat grass
Do  sheep have woollen rugs  glued to their heads ?
I am finished
[At last!]

Erich Fromm

I wander through the lonely streets to find
A shop where I can buy another mind
This mind I have I must have well abused
For I wrote mathematics with no clues.
Now I cannot understand my books
I want to see but I can only look
Why did I go wrong so  fast so soon
I ask the stars to watch me and resume
I wonder why there’s no door in our heads
So minds could be replaced while we’re abed.
But dreaming would be altered and undone
As soon as we sensed dawn had overrun
Soon it is he shortest day  of light
And winter  aggravates  with frost the longest night
Yet I have found wrist warmers are superb
Made of tin foil, boiled in dark green curds
My fingernails have grown again,how gay!
I’ll ask a man to dine with me and play

Click to access poetry-language.pdf

Short extract

POETRY’S LANGUAGE
Poetry uses language in many different ways. By noticing the techniques poets use with
language, it becomes easier to understand and talk about a poem. If you are a writer, consider
using some of these language techniques to emphasize certain ideas, themes or images.
Imagery
Plain and simple, imagery is the word used to describe the types of images a poet uses
throughout the poem. Images are references to a single mental creation; they are the verbal
representation of a sense impression. However, there are many different types of imagery that
can be used.
Visual Images (sight)
 Example: “The look-out man will see some lakes of milk-color light on the sea’s
night-purple”
“The Purse-Seine”
Robinson Jeffers
Tactile Images (touch)
 Example: “The only things moving are swirls of snow.
As I lift the mailbox door, I feel its cold iron.”
“Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter”
Robert Bly
Auditory Images (sounds)
 Example: “she quietly rolled
flour tortillasthe
‘papas’
cracking in the hot lard
would wake me”
“My Grandmother Would Rock Quietly and Hum”
Leonard Adamé
Gustatory Images (tastes)
 Example: “Take out a three-pound leg of lamb,

Simple recipes for one or two
Cheese on toast accompanied by glue
What will this old cook book do for me?
Shall I make an omelette for my tea.

When I reached the age of 65
I blessed the Lord for I was still alive
But I put away the cordon bleu cook book
I am going simple.Write me books.

How to mash potatoes with your shoe
How to fill the freezer till you’re blue
How to boil an egg within a stew
An omelette in the kettle is a clue.

So do not be alarmed for all is well
They just have many cook books that won’t sell

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69448/the-good-the-bad-and-the-good-bad

Introduction

“Yet just as cheese sometimes gets too moldy—to plunge forward with my metaphor in the blithe manner of James McIntyre—so can bad poetry rot beyond possible appreciation. Charles Lee and D.B. Wyndham Lewis discussed this problem in their famed anthology The Stuffed Owl (1930), a collection of bad poetry that has served as a model for many such volumes to follow. They outlined distinctions between ‘good Bad Verse,’ which they sought for their book, and “bad Bad Verse,” which they avoided.”—Abigail Deutsch examines the good, the bad, and the good bad.

Read the entire article.

Follow us on Twitter, Facebook.

Original illustrations by Paul Killebrew.

What are we to do with lines like these?

We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

We might grow slightly nauseated. We might (who knows?) get hungry. We might gleefully illuminate the poetic palsies that weaken the frame of this work, James McIntyre’s “Ode on the Mammoth Cheese”: the clanging rhymes, the collapsing meter, the misguided coronation of a Canadian dairy queen.

Alternatively—as we reread in delight, as we probably just did—we might note the workings of a mysterious alchemy. Just as milk ferments into cheese, so can bad poetry, in this and other cases, transform into something rather enjoyable. Like a pungent Roquefort, bad poetry can stink in marvelously complex ways.

Yet just as cheese sometimes gets too moldy—to plunge forward with my metaphor in the blithe manner of James McIntyre—so can bad poetry rot beyond possible appreciation. Charles Lee and D.B. Wyndham Lewis discussed this problem in their famed anthology The Stuffed Owl (1930), a collection of bad poetry that has served as a model for many such volumes to follow. They outlined distinctions between “good Bad Verse,” which they sought for their book, and “bad Bad Verse,” which they avoided. “The field of bad Bad Verse is vast, and confusing in its tropical luxuriance,” they opined, before launching into a description of its authors (“the illiterate, the semi-literate, the Babu, the nature-loving contributor to the county newspaper, the retired station-master, the spinster lady coyly attuned to Life and Spring”). When it came to explaining their preference for the elusive “good Bad” variety, however, Lewis and Lee grew cagey:

It would, indeed, be a permissible exercise in dialectic to prove here conclusively and inclusively, if we had the time, that good Bad Verse has an eerie, supernal beauty comparable in its accidents with the beauty of Good Verse. . . . We will merely assert here that good Bad verse . . . is devilish pleasing.

To what do we owe the devilish pleasure—and how has it grown powerful enough to prompt the succession of bad-poetry anthologies that followed The Stuffed Owl? These works include, but are not limited to, The Worst English Poets (1958), Pegasus Descending: A Book of the Best Bad Verse (1971), The Joy of Bad Verse (1988), In Search of the World’s Worst Writers (2000), and Very Bad Poetry (1997), edited by a brother-and-sister team who also published The 776 Stupidest Things Ever Said (1993) and The 776 Even Stupider Things Ever Said(1994). In 2009, according to Nielsen BookScan, Very Bad Poetry has sold as many copies as Richard Ellmann’s Oxford Book of Verse, suggesting that the anthology-worshiping public values the good Bad as much as the good Good. But why?

Is it because lovers of bad verse are bad people?”

The sun  delivers late   like  morning post
I’m waiting for the first sign of the dawn
See it hiding like a pink flushed ghost

In two short days  ,it will be at its  lowest
Before we note, it’s been and swift has run.
The sun  delivers late just  like the  post

I wish I were on Norfolk’s Northern coast
There the sun will rise  and on strands fawn
See it waving like a scarlet ghost.

Pale gold sands  edge   seas that Norsemen rode
How daring were these Danes,where have they gone?
The sun  delivers late just  like the  post

Here love lives and here will love abide
Seeds of  wild flowers , cliffs behind Weybourne
See the sun  waste till it is a ghost

These natural happenings fill my mind with awe
Symbols are created from light raw
The sun  delivers late  and does not boast
See it skitter like a winter ghost

And He saw that it was good

Hello, this is BT technical help.Funny your phone number is in Brazil.
Hello, you were in a car accident.Was I?Thanks so much.I don’t even  have a car.Did I get run over? I might be dead.Yikes!
Hello, this is your Bank.I don’t  own any banks.Thanks
Hello,I am the doctor.Doctor Who?
Hello, this is your dentist.What’s the drill?
Hello, is that you? It depends on you hoooh!
Hello,I like your voice.Anything else?
Hello,I  am a Bishop.And I’m a King.
Hello, you have inherited money.Yes and I’ve spent it too.
Hello, this is Virgin media.Sorry,I don’t want to be a virgin

There’s nobody here to take your call.Please write a letter.

Copenhagen by Michael Frayn by Katherine and old Delly computer
Dear All

Failed again.I thought starting my letter early would be a good idea.But starting is one thing.Finishing is harder.Anyway  my main news is that I got married last week.I didn’t say anything because it’s private.But then marriage is a social and religious institution.So  it’s not private at all.That’s logic for you.Useless.
Do you remember learning long division as it would be ” useful later” and quadratic equations too.Have you ever found a use for them?
My husband is  called X.
X Ray.Ph.D

He studied  at Stamford,Hale and Cumbrage.He now works laying tarmac on roads while writing his thesis on
Tarmac and Wittgenstein:How covering old roads destroys our links with the past,nature and the wordless dimension of life with brief references to Lacan and The Real,and Winnicot’s  Transitional Spaces.
You will be wondering where I met Ray.Well, we met in the library when we were looking at the same section… post modern novels.There were only three so we each took one and left  the other for some intellectual loner with melancholia and schizoid personality disorder.We must think of others even in the library.
He asked me if he could drive me home and he’s now part of the furniture.He has three children called Ophelia, Arriva and Mercury.They used tlo live quite near; their mother  died young and Ray has brought them up by himself.At least, he never got married again until he  caught me.
Mercury is now called Mark and he is a teacher in Venezuela.He  teaches  art to depressed  people in a hospital and sells his own work on the net.Right now he’s into snails.And mathematics.

Well Ray wants his dinner and also  he has twin cats who need feeding.I choose this as I  love to feed people.And they do other wonderful and unnameable things in return.Not paying me,of course.That would be a sin.
So please forgive me if I don’t tell you the full story today.
Or even before Xmas.Be happy, my children and donate to charity if you can.
Yours ever

Kitty cat

The lights outside are mirrored in the glass
Giving  brighter feelings to the room
Winter sun is falling South of West

The year unwound like string caught in a trap
The nuclear West  overseen  by men  obscene
The lights outside are mirrored in the glass

Mother  made life simple, woollen vests;
With her eyes she shone to lift the gloom.
Winter sun is falling South of West

Once in Bethlehem, love came to pass
Yet good does not dance long  to human tunes.
The lights outside are mirrored in the glass

Like cruel children we with torture wrest
The secrets of the dumb, the ghastly truths
Winter sun is falling down and West

In my mind I hear my father croon
Lullabies and joyful wordless tunes
The lights outside are mirrored in the glass
The sun  lives yet;it  gleamed on ink pot brass.

Since  sadness flowed like acid when you died
As if my soul or heart had been ripped out
If I feel happy, must you be alive?

Can it be that truth was not applied?
That I had never agonised in doubt?
My tears ran like  cold water when you died

In logic, algebraic symbols thrive
But logic is not what life is all about
If I feel happy, must you be alive?

So I look round me,seeking for your eyes
Then loss hits me again in mighty clouts
My guts filled with  flood waters when you died

I see a little bird  through  storm clouds  flies
A beam of intense blackness highlights thought
If I am happy, must  you be alive?

For an instant, sunshine  fills the void
The space where prayer could never G-d annoy
My tears flowed  like  mountain water when you died
If I am happy,  where are you  alive?

https://www.google.co.uk/search?safe=active&dcr=0&source=hp&ei=Jc43WsG5HIjxULWDvMAH&q=void+meaning&oq=void&gs_l=psy-ab.1.2.0l10.483.1531.0.4597.5.4.0.0.0.0.238.553.0j3j1.4.0….0…1.1.64.psy-ab..1.4.551.0…0.wCgjZPbrQoU

void

Qqqqqvɔɪd/

adjective

adjective: void

1. 1.

   not valid or legally binding.

   “the contract was void”

   synonyms:

   invalid, null and void, null, nullified, cancelled, revoked, rescinded, abolished, inoperative, ineffective, not binding, not in force, non-viable, useless, worthless, nugatory; More

   antonyms:

   valid

   • (of speech or action) ineffectual; useless.

     “all the stratagems you’ve worked out are rendered void”
2. 2.

   completely empty.

   “void spaces surround the tanks”

   synonyms:

   empty, emptied, vacant, without contents, containing nothing, blank, bare, clear, free, unfilled, unoccupied, uninhabited, desolate, barren “the cathedral has vast void spaces”

   antonyms:

   full

   • free from; lacking.

     “what were once the masterpieces of literature are now void of meaning”

     synonyms:

     devoid of, empty of, vacant of, bare of, destitute of, bereft of, denuded of, deficient in, free from; More

     antonyms:

     occupied

   • formal

     (of an office or position) vacant.

noun

noun: void; plural noun: voids

1. 1.

   a completely empty space.

   “the black void of space”

   synonyms:

   gap, empty space, space, blank space, blank, vacuum, lacuna, hole, cavity, chasm, abyss, gulf, pit, hiatus; More

   • an unfilled space in a wall, building, or other structure.
   • an emptiness caused by the loss of something.

     “his loss leaves a void in the community”
2. 2.

   (in bridge and whist) a suit in which a player is dealt no cards.

   “a hand with a singleton club is more likely than one with a void”

verb

verb: void; 3rd person present: voids; past tense: voided; past participle: voided; gerund or present participle: voiding

1. 1.

   NORTH AMERICAN

   declare that (something) is not valid or legally binding.

   “the Supreme court voided the statute”

   synonyms:

   invalidate, render invalid, annul, nullify; More

   antonyms:

   validate, ratify

2. 2.

   discharge or drain away (water, gases, etc.).

   “the gases are usually voided into the mechanism”

   • MEDICINE

     excrete (waste matter).

     “it cannot be metabolized and is voided in the urine”

     synonyms:

     eject, expel, emit, discharge, pass, excrete, egest, let out, send out, release, exude, eliminate; raredisembogue “the bacteria are present in the kidneys of the rat and are voided in the urine”

     antonyms:

     take in

   • empty or evacuate (a container or space).

     “a fully voided core assembly”

     synonyms:

     evacuate, empty, empty out, drain, clear, unload, unburden, purge “the patients had difficulty in voiding their bladders”

     antonyms:

     fill

Origin

Middle English (in the sense ‘unoccupied’): from a dialect variant of Old French vuide ; related to Latin vacare ‘vacate’; the verb partly a shortening of avoid, reinforced by Old French voider .

Photo by Katherine
Hello, are you the householder? No ,I’m that spider on the wall that people keep talking about.Who are you?
Your printer is broken.Wow, it’s still in the box.Thanks, I’ll take it back tomorrow.
Your mobile phone has got a virus! Oh, don’t worry.I have one as well.
Your internet radio is  listening to you. Thanks, I’ve been singing all day.I hope the radio is not jealous.I’ll switch it on or do I need to if it’s already listening?
The TV is watching you. I don’t care.I’ve seen all its sordid secrets.Well, not all but enough.
We can protect you.It’s ok.Catholics have guardian angels.
We will give you a free month.Of what?
We can pray instead of you.Somehow I  don’t think that is quite the same.
It conveys a subtle yet fundamental misunderstanding of what prayer is for.
Do you repent? No,I only re-paper.
The Lord is nigh.Sin no more.Can I just do one more bad thing? Alright.Eff off.

1.Rail Enquiries

Customer: “How much does it cost to Bath on the train?”
Operator: “If you can get your feet in the sink, then it’s free

2.How much is it to get to Oxford?
If you can walk,it’s free.
On the rail tracks?
It’s your funeral!
3.I want to  go to University.
I’m sorry but Rail Studies begins next semester.
Where  do I do that?
Up the junction
4.My parents gave me no money.where can I go?
Aberdeen but they’ll send you back on the next train under   guard.
That’s a bit rude.
You take things too literally
You seem very bright.Did you go to Uni?
I went to Balliol, but I didn’t like the architecture.
You’re black
What’s that got to do with architecture?
You are vanishingly small.
Hello Wittgenstein
My name is not Hello.
I was joking.
Two words can’t be a joke
Balls.
I don’t follow you.
I have no blog yet.
What is a blog?
You need to do Media Studies
What,spend £60,000!
It’s either that or look in a dictionary.
Is that the only  alternative?
No, just don’t keep asking questions.
Will that be best?
Depends on what you compare it with.
So that is how we learn,by comparison?
Either that or I hit you with my pointed railway stick
I didn’t know railways were pointed.
You don’t know much at all.
I can always ask you.
Who’s Hugh?
Don’t you start!

https://www.maa.org/sites/default/files/images/upload_library/4/vol6/Growney/MathPoetry.html#Nemerov

“Figures of Thought by Howard Nemerov

Poet Laureate of the United States from 1988-1990, Howard Nemerov (1920-91) served as a combat pilot during World War II. Here are lines of a poem Figures of Thought that gives the essence of a mathematical model.

	To lay the logarithmic spiral on
	Sea-shell and leaf alike, and see it fit,
	To watch the same idea work itself out
	In the fighter pilot's steepening, tightening turn
	Onto his target, setting up the kill,
	And in the flight of certain wall-eyed bugs . . .

If you do not have a clear picture in your mind of this curve, you may wish to explore the algebra and geometry of the logarithmic spiral and see how vividly it illuminates Nemerov’s poem.”

Do read this post below

via Vote love.

In the nightmare, you were strongly here
When I woke ,I searched the upstairs rooms
Your presence and the screaming made me fear

The woman like a ghost of nuns surreal
Violently attacked me with her womb
In the nightmare, you  both shared a leer

My hair is  little better than a spear
My face is pale and weary with tattoos.
Your presence and the screaming made me fear

At a funeral be,  and shed a tear
While Joan of Arc is wired up to her doom
In the nightmare, you  had seemed  so near

I was living in  a world of signs and heat
Over me this  reeking rage  peak loomed
In your presence,  the   sharp screaming seemed effete

The stories in my mind are  like large blooms
The ashes of the saint add their  perfume
In the nightmare, you  will find  love here
Your  remains are dust and ashes, damp with tears

 Come live with me and be my sweetheart now
I’ll share my only bed with you and how!
If you let me love you
I’ll darn your old wool  gloves for you
If you come and meet me brow to brow.

Come live with me ‘n teach me all you know
About poetic licence and Defoe.
I’ll mend your vacuum cleaner,
Learn expressions meaner..
How cheerfully the hours to come will go,

Come live with me and be my lover true
Without one,whatever  shall we  do?
I’ll mend all England’s railways
Wreck the works on weekdays
Come live with me and I will sweep your flue.

Come live with me in Norway on a fjord
I’ll use  my Canon PowerShot if I 'm bored
I’ll watch the flowers growing
And see the waters flowing
How happy Wittgenstein’d have been if he’d knowed