Like music or the menace of Al-gebra.

The art of  loving’s likely going to cost you;
Like  music or the menace of al-gebra.
Will you pay the price,I  need to ask you?

Remember all the lovers who have tossed you!
They say for stress ,to imitate the zebra
The art of  loving’s surely going to cost you

Will you let me , now I need to grasp you?
I remember your first  girl,that minx called Debra
Will you eat my food,I   have to ask you?

I wonder how I’d  feel if I had lost you.
Can I  save your image  on my camera?
The art of  loving, what’s it going to cost you?

I recognise,I know your shape and posture.
I want to steal your kisses;may I rob you?
Will you pay  full  price,I   have  to ask you?

I’ve  loved a million men but not a cobra.
Do I need a permit if I love you?
The tact of  living’s likely to  bypass you;.
Will you pay the piper, when I frisk you?

The friends who sit in silent company

The cause of sadness also shows its end;
That we let go the loved one and remain.
Such comfort,aid and love we have from friends
Helps us bear the heart’s most dangerous pain.

 

But if our friends  fear their own  hidden  grief.
If sorrow is never let to touch their heart;
Then friendship’s stolen by a nervous thief;
As wishing to retain our self,we part.

 

The friends who sit in silent company
Who look for no reward yet love us true
Who show,  quite clear, desireless empathy;
They are friends who warmth and  hope imbue.

 

Patient silence may do more than  words
The utterance of the heart is not absurd.

Silence in the company of friends

Sometimes silence is so sweet
We need no music other than its song.
But when we’re  tired and suffer a defeat
Then silence feels both threatening and wrong.

We need the company of other human hearts
But now we use our smartphones to connect.
This is where new alienation starts
We’re just a voice, a photo book ransacked.

So much is missed when we have no eye contact
No winks.no silent glances as we pass.
We lack the energy,so disrespect
Evoking rage by our behaviour crass.

Silence in the company of friends
Sings  its song whose  melodies are lent.

Being educated is more than getting “information”


Trying to understand:
in  an information culture,
evocation is more important;
explicit saying  counts against us.
People need to be well
into believing
being educated is more
than information:
the incoherencies
what they’re saying,
the musicality
of people’s voices
and intonations;
would get more
from them.
Effectively, psychoanalysis is
something other, not the coherences;
it listens for words
that are saying more
e,
t’s got something to do with  being;
it’s a form of listening,
not distracted by incoherence
but evoked by it.

Consummated with a kiss.

Sacred the  love the rose dwells in;
Thorns protect what lies within.
Precious flower designed for bliss
Consummated with a kiss.

Eternity is one moment
When chattering minds are each silent.
The warp and weft of life  itself
Has value more than human wealth.
So passive be, with patience blessed
Focus wide and all relaxed
We wait like this  with music ‘joyed
So quietly played, all hurt’s destroyed.

The rose by nature of design
Gives peace to both the heart and mind.
And so it is with this  green world
Of   blossom,  bush,  and petals curled.

In a storm  small  butterflies
Dance  in spaces small yet blithe.
Between the hailstones they will  live
And of themselves entirely give.

We too  find our sacred space
When with nature we embrace.
We  like flowers must grow and die.
We fall to dust and thus shall fly.

In the sunlight dust motes dance
As if by brightness full entranced.
We, like them ,do not compete
For  that love which us completes

For as we’re nothing,we are free
For God made you and God made me.
As we have no pride or will
We trust in One   who will fulfil.

Focus

night-scribbles
I used to wonder why desire was regarded as a bad thing in Buddhism.After all to be without any desire might be a symptom of deep depression..
But later I came to realise that if we are too focussed on our desire for one person or one object or one feeling that this sharp focus would prevent one from perceiving many other things.So perhaps it’s a change of focus that is intended.I can imagine that if you desire one person who may not be interested then you miss seeing all the other people near you.
Sometimes we have to use a narrow focus to do a task.In mathematics you’d expect a narrow focus but the reason why stopping and going for a walk works is that it widens your focus.

Can an angel change her name?

  • Dotty cats
  • Stan had eaten too much pizza because he was extremely ravenous from doing the washing. and hanging it up on the mulberry tree in his long garden Now he felt lazy and haphazardly fey and other worldly and liable to have visions..Now and then he saw an angel whom he called Yael in his home.But having looked up Yael on a website he realised she was not a very nice woman unlike his dear wife Mary.So he was planning a new name for the angel with her permissiom
  • Do you mind if I change your name,he enquired gently when Yael came in through the French window.
    Well,what to? Yael asked him familiarly
    How about Ysabel? Stan offered.It’s got just an extra b and s.
    Or how about,Sybael?
    You seem fond of b and s, the angel answered in confusion.
    It was just mere chance,said Stan somewhat defensively.
    Ok I’ll take Sybael,the angel said loudly .
    I want to change my name too, said Emile the cat of Stan.
    How about Mebiles or Melibes or Eimbles….
    I don’t know, pouted the cat haughtily.
    How about Semile,said Stan.Though it has no letter b in it, he bragged.
    They all pondered quietly as the sun shone in through the window and made a lovely lacy pattern on the wall.
    In came Mary,Stan’s sweet old wife and his computer aided extension too.
    You are very quiet,she murmured.What’s going on here ?
    We are tring to find a new name for Emile,Stan told her as Sybael waved her wings about.
    It seems very draughty in here,Mary said.And Emile can’t change his name because it will change his personality.
    I didn’t know I had a personality,the little cat purred.
    It is what is most characteristic of you.For example, if you always hurt those you love then you have a cruel personality or you have got diabetes.Some people want love but they are too harsh and demanding.
    So true,Stan added pensively.
    Anyway,I have some awfully strange news,Mary went on.
    You just won’t believe this but Dorothy Grey who lives at the bottom of the hill has just had a heart attack.
    How come
    She had an online love relationship with a rather peculiar but intriguing and clever elderly man who turned out to be a sadist in disguise.So when she ended it he flew over and attacked her with an air gun and some cat’s claws which he had bought from a cat market
    Is he a wizard,asked Emile.
    No, he flew on a stolen magic carpet from Persia.
    Persian carpets,I’d love one here said the cat greedily
    Actually it’s a kind of plane,said Stan.
    How boring ,said Mary angrily.
    Anyway Dorothy was so shocked her arteries spasmed and she is in A and E now on morphine,she added…
    What a shame that she got that instead of a spasm elsewhere….Stan muttered thinking of Freud.
    But who’d have sex with such a horrible old man? Mary asked.
    An equally horrible old woman,maybe? Stan riposted.
    Any way it all goes to show the dangers of online love, he informed the room.
    It’s not real love,is it, because in real love the other person is as important to you as yourself.Mary said theologically.
    Well. now Eros is a kind of love,too.But many old men just want their washing done and a companion.Eros has departed from their world.
    Sybael smiled and then flew out of the window.
    What was that noise, said Mary anxiously.
    Just an angel’s wings,said Stan quietly
    If only Dorothy had seen an angel instead of that harsh old man she might be much better now.Mary mused.But not everyone can see them.Their world seems full of horrible old men and beautiful young women
    Emile winked at Stan and then ran out to chase a butterfly amongst the scented tulips.. there were lots of angels there every day but only he knew.
    Angels don’t like big modern cities but they like old abbeys and cathedrals and places where such things used to be before post modernist architecture took over.
    And cat’s claws are not meant for scratching your loved ones either.And online dating should be avoided except with atheists and agnostics.They are less judgemental about women’s place and roles.It’s strange how harsh many religious people are.Harsh and unforgiving.

Word of the day:extremophile

whireisland

 

https://www.merriam-webster.com/word-of-the-day

 


Definition

: an organism that lives under extreme environmental conditions (as in a hot spring or ice cap)

Examples

“Beetles with antifreeze blood, ants that sprint on scorching sand and spiders that live high up Mount Everest. These incredible creatures are the extremophiles: animals that survive some of the most inhospitable conditions on Earth, and sometimes even further.” — Christopher Brooks, BBC.co.uk, 26 Mar. 2016

“[Andrew] Czaja said research into extremophiles in general gives scientists confidence that life can exist anywhere where the appropriate building blocks, including a liquid medium (such as water) and a source of energy, exist.”

Did You Know?

No, an extremophile is not an enthusiast of extreme sports (though -phile does mean “one who loves or has an affinity for”). Rather, extremophiles are organisms—mostly microorganisms—that thrive in environments once considered uninhabitable, from places with high levels of toxicity and radiation to boiling-hot deep-sea volcanoes to Antarctic ice sheets. Scientists have even created a new biological domain to classify some of these extremophiles: Archaea (from Greek archaios, meaning “ancient”). These extremophiles may have a lot in common with the first organisms to appear on earth billions of years ago. If so, they can give us insight into how life on our planet may have arisen. They are also being studied to learn about possible life forms on other planets, where conditions are extreme compared to conditions on Earth.

Where metal walls echo the coursing blood

A strange and lonely feeling held my heart
Gripping like  some pincers  made of steel.
From my beloved I had had to part
Then  numbness  folded round me like wheel.

And quietness loved  has now turned into threat
Nero like ,I  fiddle with my  tunes
Pie Jesu’s not made top ten yet
Larks’ ascents aren’t worth much  to a loon.

I phoned a friend,her voice did me no good
It echoed in the chambers of my mind
Where metal walls echo the coursing blood
And escalate these feelings so unkind

Though he l loved has gone and is now dead.
I  see his face  upon my  heartless bed

 

 

Extract from a piece in the New Yorker

Donald Trump is hardly the first President to lie to the American people. Nor is he the first to place ideology before data. But this White House, unlike any other, has already crossed the threshold into a space where facts appear to mean nothing.

Eventually, the President’s daily policy outrages, his caustic insults, and his childish Twitter rants will fade into history. But it will take years to gauge the impact of having a habitual liar as President. When words like “science” and “progress” become unmoored from their meaning, the effects are incalculable. And let’s not kid ourselves: those words today are under assault with a ferocity we have not seen for hundreds of years.

The United States is now a country with dozens of unofficial government “resistance” Twitter accounts. There is one for the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, another for the Environmental Protection Agency, and others for the National Park Service, the Peace Corps, and the Customs Agency. Last week, in what the account describes as an effort to present “actual facts, instead of alternative facts,’’ they were joined by the nation’s most important public-health agency, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

There are horrific lies of omission: last week, the White House released a statement on International Holocaust Remembrance Day that pointedly declined to refer to Jews, because others were killed, too. And there are denials of truth that are impossible to categorize: the President met with Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., an anti-vaccine zealot with a history of falsehoods, and talked to him about possibly forming a commission on vaccine safety. (After Kennedy said he’d actually been asked to lead such a commission, provoking dismay, the Trump team said that no decision had yet been made.) Then there are lies so ludicrous that it is hard (though essential) to take them seriously: according to Trump, the United States has just gone through the most devastating instance of voter fraud in the nation’s history. And, in his telling, every one of the millions of illegal votes happened to be cast for Clinton

Be unhappy

two-of-us-more

 

Don’t Worry, Be Unhappy

“In social situations, gentle negativity seems sincere to me. And it can require courage. “If you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all” we are taught.  So being negative risks, at the very least,  social censure. Of course, nobody needs a stream of unsolicited, unvarnished truths–everything in moderation. But many times, negativity is either effective or, at the very least, an honest expression of a different take on the world. No harm done.

Actually, in a weird way, being negative also implies movement, progress, to me. If everything is good, nothing needs to change, and then where are we? Settling for good enough, lacking goals, gettin’ fat on the couch.”

Artificial

Diagonal streams now  stripe the windowpane
And in them, tiny insects drown and die.
Unexpected ,sudden rain  has come.
Those escape who have  the wings to fly.

No angels were seen peering  at my  room
No doubt they have their  Sunday wings to press.
No  camera ,even with psychotic zoom,
Can catch an angel while she is undressed.

Now the rain has dried and all is sweet
I tend to houseplants standing by the door.
By good luck these houseplants never bleep.
Only in the real world do they flower.

Bleeps and pings are not a natural sound.
But to the artificial   we  will bound

Like  the haze of opening leaf buds in spring time….

6636107_f520
I see a haze of hair on your head
like the softness of just opening leaf buds in spring.
The chemo is over,and you wait relieved and letting that
take you for a while before you start to face the next stage.
Will your Spring turn to a warm enchanting Summer
or has the cancer,as they say “spread.”
Just for now,you’re in that lull
so in three weeks time you will not be
arriving for another session of drugs
and days of sickness.I see the light fuzz which reminds me
of how the cat’s fur grew back after her surgery
and she,being unable to reflect or question,
leaped from the fence top onto next door’s kitchen roof;
no thought in her mind of stitches breaking.
How beautifully the patterned fur returned
and the vulnerable skin was covered again.
Oh,to look into those eyes and see you dream
about mice that live behind the shed
and how you sat watching for hours
and how you were alive till the very last moment.
Then , all of a sudden,you were gone.Pray it will not be so for ,the fragile,loving human
now waiting and living,hoping for what you took for granted…
a  “normal” life span Or maybe just three quarters of one
would be satisfactory;would be a beneficence
such as trees feel when the sap turns and begins to flow back.
bringing life out of the darkness of earth and soil.
And another Summer comes at the right time
and we find it,shall we say,satisfactory.

Blown away with your smoke

 ???????????????If I go I won’t tell you.

I’ll just disappear one day.

Like when a cigarette ,which seemed so long,

suddenly has become smaller

and you never noticed it

because you were talking

about the meaning of life

while life was somewhere else

blown away with your smoke

into the sky

and then dispersed

never quite visible again

but still floating on the breeze

hoping to be caught

in a butterfly net

but unable to communicate

except by flying.

If I go it will not be today

but it will be an ordinary day

no one will realise

that it’s that day

that the bird flies

from her nest

to go to a new place

only seeing the deserted nest

he realises,

my bird has flown

The elements of poetry

wp_20161103_09_44_01_pro-2-222222

http://learn.lexiconic.net/elementsofpoetry.htm

 


STANZAS: Stanzas are a series of lines grouped together and separated by an empty line from other stanzas. They are the equivalent of a paragraph in an essay. One way to identify a stanza is to count the number of lines. Thus:

  • couplet (2 lines)
  • tercet (3 lines)
  • quatrain (4 lines)
  • cinquain (5 lines)
  • sestet (6 lines) (sometimes it’s called a sexain)
  • septet (7 lines)
  • octave (8 lines)


FORM
: A
poem may or may not have a specific number of lines, rhyme scheme and/or metrical pattern, but it can still be labeled according to its form or style. Here are the three most common types of poems according to form:

1. Lyric Poetry: It is any poem with one speaker (not necessarily the poet) who expresses strong thoughts and feelings. Most poems, especially modern ones, are lyric poems.

2. Narrative Poem: It is a poem that tells a story; its structure resembles the plot line of a story [i.e. the introduction of conflict and characters, rising action, climax and the denouement].

3. Descriptive Poem: It is a poem that describes the world that surrounds the speaker. It uses elaborate imagery and adjectives. While emotional, it is more “outward-focused” than lyric poetry, which is more personal and introspective.

 

In a sense, almost all poems, whether they have consistent patterns of sound and/or structure, or are free verse, are in one of the three categories above. Or, of course, they may be a combination of 2 or 3 of the above styles! Here are some more types of poems that are subtypes of the three styles above:

Ode: It is usually a lyric poem of moderate length, with a serious subject, an elevated style, and an elaborate stanza pattern.

Elegy: It is a lyric poem that mourns the dead. [It’s not to be confused with a eulogy.]It has no set metric or stanzaic pattern, but it usually begins by reminiscing about the dead person, then laments the reason for the death, and then resolves the grief by concluding that death leads to immortality. It often uses “apostrophe” (calling out to the dead person) as a literary technique. It can have a fairly formal style, and sound similar to an ode.

Sonnet: It is a lyric poem consisting of 14 lines and, in the English version, is usually written in iambic pentameter. There are two basic kinds of sonnets: the Italian (or Petrarchan) sonnet and the Shakespearean (or Elizabethan/English) sonnet. The Italian/Petrarchan sonnet is named after Petrarch, an Italian Renaissance poet. The Petrarchan sonnet consists of an octave (eight lines) and a sestet (six lines). The Shakespearean sonnet consists of three quatrains (four lines each) and a concluding couplet (two lines). The Petrarchan sonnet tends to divide the thought into two parts (argument and conclusion); the Shakespearean, into four (the final couplet is the summary).

Ballad: It is a narrative poem that has a musical rhythm and can be sung. A ballad is usually organized into quatrains or cinquains, has a simple rhythm structure, and tells the tales of ordinary people.

Epic: It is a long narrative poem in elevated style recounting the deeds of a legendary or historical hero.    

The shingle beach,the Church where Britten lies

I saw  the sun rise over the North Sea
Accentuating coloured fishing boats.
The beauty of the dawn gave hope to me
A restful pleasure made my  soft eyes  dote.
The peace of this small town has caught my heart.
Scenes from ancient times  come close again
The gulls swoop down and  sketch their flying charts
Remote as ever from the realm of man.
The shingle beach,the  Church  where Britten lies
The in and out, the  tides  of salty sea;
An exact match of houses,hill and skies.
The Maltings,music and its poetry..
In my mind I walk in love again;
Though of the two, a single one remains

A card to be their presidential meme.

Sometimes I am glad that you are gone
You would be startled to perceive  the strange new scene
That a nation educated  could choose one
A card to be their presidential meme.

Leonard Cohen hung on with his frail thread
But fell when  dreaming of the latest polls
And you, too, are  perhaps comforted  in death
You don’t have  to vote for  shipwrecked fools

Yet we who’re strong must live and hope for good.
The virtues of the noblest minds aid ours.
We must cultivate the tender buds.
And not assume ourselves to be mere cowards.

For one good  person, God would not destroy
The Sodom   we’ve  created in false joy.

 

Is humorous poetry truly poetry?

CHOOSING - MORE COMPLICATED THAN IT SEEMS - Godschool

 

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/serious-art-thats-funny-humor-poetry

 

“Carolyn Forché, someone who has never been accused of being a funny poet, has said “irony, paradox, surrealism . . . might well be both the answer and a restatement of [Theodor] Adorno’s often quoted and difficult contention that to write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric.” But what did the philosopher and critic Adorno mean by this fatuous statement? No poetry? Or just a very, very serious and earnest poetry? Because, let’s face it–earnestness is almost always bad art. Good art makes us think; it has more questions than answers. Often, but not always, satire does this too. But earnestness almost never does this–that’s not its job. Earnestness is comforting. It wants to hug us. And we want to be hugged sometimes. But sometimes we want to laugh while poking holes in self-righteousness and oppression, whether it be literal political oppression or oppression of a quieter sort – cultural and aesthetic oppression. Irony and satire are such a good antidote to oppression because oppression needs to be earnest (or at least look earnest) in order to be feared by those it seeks to cow. Oppression cannot work alongside irony because it believes in its own righteousness and a monolithic concept of truth that must be asserted to the oppressed with a straight face. Irony and satire are the tools by which the oppressed get to make fun of the oppressors without the oppressors getting it.”

Enchanted roots all tangled as were one

Who ripped his roots out from my  fragile heart
And left me  hollow ,bleeding and alone?
We who love know all humans must part.
Pain must touch  us women who’re not stone.

Yet I did not understand what we’d become;
Enchanted roots all tangled as were one
When he died , the  wound has made me lame.
For my  roots bereaved seem almost to have gone.

I stand on tilted ground like a ship’s deck
When by  squalls and gales  it  is besieged.
I  picture in my mind my own  such wreck
Yet death does not take all lovers  who’re bereaved.

My roots will spread again when spring comes by.
Till then I lean  and shudder  lest I die

 

 

I store that image in the web within

Slowly sleep unwraps itself from  me
I pull the curtain back and see the sun,
I waken  taken by dream’s  imagery.

Once we stayed in Aldeburgh by the sea.
The sunrise  showed the fishermen begin.
As slowly sleep unwrapped itself from  me

The coloured boats looked  beautiful and  free
I store that image in  the web within
I waken  taken by dream’s  imagery.

My  peaceful eyes were washed by  coloured sea.
The image murmured to its inner kin
Slowly sleep unwrapped itself from  me

I sing of joy and sorrow and am free.
I hold no thoughts of conquest,death or sin
I waken  taken by dream’s  imagery.

That which is without is yet within.
As day ended so day shall begin.
Slowly sleep unwraps itself from  me.
I waken  glorified by  imagery.

Is it ok to punch Nazis?

 

whiteisland3http://www.openculture.com/

“Put simply, democracies run on one set of values (civility, tolerance, etc.), and fascist states run on another (violence, appeal to social frustration, etc). And we start to encounter real problems when democracies sacrifice their ideals and start trafficking in the violence that belongs to fascists. This idea gets crystallized by Sheri Berman, a poli sci professor at Columbia, when she writes at Vox:

[F]ascists embraced violence as a means and an end. Fascism was revolutionary: It aimed not to reform but to destroy the modern world — and for this, a constant and probably violent struggle would be necessary. Violence was not merely the method through which revolution would be accomplished; it was valuable in and of itself, providing supporters with powerful ‘bonding’ experiences and ‘cleansing’ the nation of its weaknesses and decadence.

Vox then adds to this thought: If we condemn Nazis for “their use of politically motivated violence and then turn around and punch someone in the face because he’s a Nazi — and bond over it online through memes and jokes — [it] seems hypocritical.” And it damages democracy.”

Where nude police with guns strut stiffly by.

He says we’re going to bed this afternoon
As melancholy  clouds  droop from the sky
I like the sun to  fry, to heat my womb

I like the flowers each with its  dull dead blooms
On burning   grass with him, I sinned to  fly.
He says we’re getting bail this afternoon

If there is no sun, there is no  moon.
If  we cannot stalk, then we can lie.
I out my sins  to  thrive, to bring  down Rome

I    scorn the  beach, where Europe showed it’s ruined
Nude starched police with guns strut  stiffly by.
He says we’ll have  the climax   S & hemmed,

I sing in tunes invented by my clones
I would be dumb  yet how the grey ghosts sigh
I  hear the sunbeams screaming in the Zone

 

If  it’s   very hot I have  clothes my own
Burkinis  are  the   big hits of today
They says we’re going to Jail this afternoon
I  hope that God will speak  and  throw us down

Howl with discretion

  • 6390429_8d9779479d_m
    She gave him a bowl of discretion and some milk of inhuman kindness
    I have the art and he has the craft but do we have the rhyme?
    Shalll we abandon  lips? Kissing is not to be scorned
    So it’s all about my face then?
    I sleep above the board and my head is underneath the bed.
    Absence makes the heart stray yonder.
    Advent makes my whole heart ponder
    Resolution falters after the facts.
    He said his face was in the hole and his balls was up a tree.Bad grammar!
    His body is still missing apart from his complexion
    He keeps his face up his sleeve since he saw a naked woman
    Why did Achilles not heal?
    The unborn don’t fall down on me!
    Factions speak louder than wholes
    Fictions speak sounder than truths.
    After viewing my own art I need a shrink
    After viewing my own heart I can’t think
    If you show me your part, I can yank
    After suing my own heart I winked.Or wanked?

It’s a cheater

  • My lover broke a wine bottle
    I put him on the bed and took out his splinters withtweezers.
    I stitched him up completely…he’ll be fine in a few weeks time when the cuts are all healed.
    Meanwhile he’s resting in the cat’s basket.And the cat is in bed with me.
    Well,I thought he was a cat at first…turns out to be my ex… he still had a door key.
    He said,what’s going on?There’s a man in a casket.
    I said,No, he’s in a basket
    So he said,how big is your cat.
    I showed him a photo.
    That’s no cat it’s a cheetah,he informed me.
    Just like you,I said naughtily
    So he took the fence and ran away to sea…I hope it floats.
    He ought to join the navy but he wore bottle green.
    Why are bottles green,I wonder?
    And I like blue glass though not in shards.
    So now the cat sleeps in a cot with its kittens… and feeds them all on demand and me as well.
    That’s a saving grace

    photo1438 2nymore

It’s not quite infidelity

My husband had never looked less livid

As he died down in old A and E.

His colour was vivid

His hair was  all withered

He cried,Where the hell do  I be?

 

I said,you’re in bed with a lady

So I’ll arrange for a speedy divorce.

You’ll have to hurry,

If you wish to re-marry.

If needs be, I shall use  polite force.

 

He winked at me solemn as Moses

After wandering the Sinai for years.

He said,Dear I love you

There’ no lady above you

Don’t spend too much on my hearse.

 

 

 

Would you like me to marry my lover?

He’s gone cold waiting out in the shed!

He said,don’t ask me yet  for

My  mood’s on a see -saw

Take whom you like when you wed.

 

But first  give me a nice service

Sing Pie Jesu for me!

Your voice is so sweet

It shall be my last treat.

Oh,Lord,how I  deeply love thee.

 

I said that is  very ambiguous

Do you love me  best or Jesu?

He said I love both

Yet I love God the most.

So there’s not very much I can do.

 

 

He imitated a dying   philanderer.

.But alas it was only too real.

My hand on his nose

Almost gave up the ghost.

It froze  and it stuck like a seal.

 

 

Oh,doctor can you separate us

For I am not yet quite dead?

My only concern

Is to take a short turn

As my boyfriend is  alone in the shed.

 

You sinner,the doctor said to me

You committed adultery twice.

Well,I had to be kind

My boyfriend’s half blind.

Is that an excuse for my vice?

 

I didn’t want love in the garden

As we might have frightened a snail.

It’s not quite  infidelity

To love a man gently

When your husband’s as dead as a nail.

 

Anyway,my heart is no  longer alive,doc

In the shadow of death ,life is weak

I pretended to be  wicked

As my husband often  bickered

Diabetics  make their carers feel bleak.

 

I see you were lost in fantasia,

While singing the psalms to your spouse.

I shall forgive you

No-one else lives like you.

You have often kept your wedding vows.

 

What do you mean saying often?

He’s the only man  I’ve ever loved.

For his sense of humour

Cleared out all my  gloomour

I called him my chicken,my dove.

 

The force of procreation is violent

And drives lonely women to bed.

God made us like this

As he made  grass snakes hiss.

Upon hearing this the doc fled!