Geoff LePard -thank goodness- is unlike other authors. Where most would see a greening woodland dappled in midday light and write about fairies, Geoff is apt to whip up a dialogue ‘txixt Madame Rootbringerton and her onerous neighbor, Sir Pansybottom.
And that dialogue is not always appropriate for general audiences.
When Geoff announced plans to write and publish a book of poetry, I therefore wasn’t sure what to expect. Spurred by forays into this site’s Terrible Poetry contests and encouraged by his muse, Geoff pursued his dream and has produced The Sincerest Form of Poetry.
All of life in one easy couplet
To write poetry I need inspiration. Often that comes from my appreciation of the craftsmanship of other, better poets, whose skills I aspire to emulate. For this anthology, I have chosen two such sources: in part one, the search for Britain’s favourite poem led to the publication of the top 100 and I have used a number of these to craft my own take on those beautiful and inspirational works; in part two, my love of the sonnet form, fostered by reading Shakespeare’s gems has provided a selection covering many topics and themes. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed creating them.
-Geoff LePard
Half parody pastiche and half sonnet, Monsieur LePard outdoes himself. After reading, I came up with a few questions which he has graciously answered:
1. Many of your poems seem inspired by a certain topic or event. Could you pick one (parody or sonnet) and describe your inspiration for it?
-Sure (and your surmise is quite right). In the first section – Parody? Hmm, I might debate that some time, though I’ve had them called pastiche too which is worse – sorry, moving on… Foreign Is Quite Ghastly is a political rant, inspired, or maybe despaired is the appropriate term, by one word. Brexit. A word that will define my generation’s stupidity, pointy-headed narrow-mindedness and casual xenophobia.
Foreign Is Quite Ghastly (Home Thoughts, From Abroad, Robert Browning)
Oh to be in England Rather than ‘abroad’ To say travel broadens the mind Is really quite absurd. It’s dusty here, and full of smells Against which the most robust rebels And, God, the din the locals make And don’t get me on what they boil and bake. I’ll gift a kidney if you’ll just allow Me back to England. Now!
The birds they have hereabouts Have beady eyes and beaks of steel, And I really must confess my doubts: These evil beasts cannot be real? Back home in dear old Blighty Our beaded tits are cute and flighty And fill my soul with careless rapture. Hearts should sing! They shouldn’t rupture!
I’ve got my ticket, I’m on my way Back to England’s green gold shores; I’m done with ‘foreign’, outdone my stay Take me home, to know-all bores, To potholed roads and warm flat beer: I’m an Englishman: get me outta here!
In structuring the poem, I began by focusing on certain well-established tropes that are raised by those whose experiences of ‘foreign’ have not been good: the strange smells when one alights from train or plane; the noise from local markets or minarets, made less attractive because it’s in a language that no self respecting Brit would want to understand; and the strange local diets inflicted on our poor traveller, which is a strange conceit given the British have adopted the mild curry as their own national dish. To give one example, I well recall my first holiday in Spain – I was 22 – when I was prevailed upon to spend a week on the Costa Brava, amongst so many other Brits. One sign, on a café, said it sold ‘tea like mum makes’: not only was it squarely aimed at we Brits and our obsession with tea but the joke had to be in English because it wouldn’t work in the local tongue.
In verse two, I’ve turned to another snobbish stereotype: that somehow Britain’s green and pleasant land – it’s natural environment – is so much nicer than everywhere else: our climate is benign; there are no poisonous creatures that will kill you (unless you have an unusual, and frankly not very British allergic reaction to say a bee string); there are no tier one predators that can out do a domesticated Brit (sure, cows can trample you and there are a few dogs I’d not want to be alone with for long) and the risk of being eaten is very remote. Further more our indigenous fauna are cuddly and cute, made more so by the propensity to anthropomorphise them in children’s literature – Wind In The Willows even rehabilitated a rat for pity’s sake. Everywhere else you have snakes that kill with a toxic glance, mammals whose teeth fail all health and safety procedures and bird life that put the lie on the theory that the dinosaurs died out.
In the final verse, I turn to consider what it is that draws the Brit home and poke fun at our acceptance of our inadequacies because, well, they’re so much better than everyone else’s inadequacies. Essentially it’s a dig at the one British past-time at which we have no superiors: our ability to moan. In the last two lines, there are two allusions which you probably need to be British to get: ‘warm flat beer’ is a reference to the chief Brexit stirrer, Nigel Farage who would often be photo’ed in a British pub sipping a pint of the ghastly muck, to prove his domestic credentials. And ‘get me outta here’ is a cultural reference to the TV show ‘I’m a Celebrity; Get me Outta here’; we like to make a big play on our cultural superiority: Shakespeare and theatre, the BBC and TV dramas and comedies Nowadays our exports are of a more prosaic nature: The Great British Bake Off, Strictly Come Dancing and Top Gear. How far have we fallen.
2. In my experience, some people are afraid of writing poetry. What advice would you give a writer who feels timid at the idea of trying a poem?
Oh dear, that’s easy to say: just write. I think people expect poetry to be a special skill and they have to have the knack or they can’t do it. I like to think of poetry as structured prose anyway. If you can write a sentence you can write poetry and some poetry is just differently aligned prose anyway.
Your lesson to me [when I applied for some advice years ago] is a great place to start. Go outside, sit and stare and then write down all you see, hear, smell and, if you do, taste and touch. Then see if anything jumps out at you as an idea or thought you’d like to pursue. Poetry doesn’t have to be about imagery or emotion, it doesn’t need metaphor or simile. It can be glib and silly. The fact that I like form is my weakness rather than a guide to how it’s done. I often wonder if we fail our children by offering them so much in rhyme that they feel the need to rhyme their poetry and that carries through to limit them in adulthood.
3. What would you rhyme with ‘orange?’
Some say it is those on the fringe On whose votes this election will hinge; But despite all the chatter It’s skin tone that’ll matter: A grey face or one that’s orange.
—–
On Geoff’s permission, I’ve included another of his poems that I enjoyed:
The Inner Musings of Clouds (Daffodils, William Wordsworth)
I wandered lonely as a cloud Which is pretty daft for a man of fifty, Cos, unlike a cloud, and I’m not proud To admit, I’m not, these days, so nifty As once I was. I’ve put on weight Through beer and pies, and grown a paunch That’s round and hard. I’m not the slight Young fella, who’d down a vat at lunch With space to drink the same at dinner. Clouds are lonely, so posits old Will, Like me, they’re seen as less saint than sinner Who’ll rain on everyone’s parade, until The fun stops. But we don’t care, cloudy and me; We are what we are: grey, fat, round and free.
To pick up your own copy, visit Tangental.com or Amazon. Stick around his blog for some great stories and some envy-worthy views of Geoff’s garden as well.
Geoff Le Pard started writing to entertain in 2006. He hasn’t left his keyboard since. When he’s not churning out novels he writes some maudlin self-indulgent poetry, short fiction and blogs at geofflepard.com. He walks the dog for mutual inspiration and most of his best ideas come out of these strolls. He also cooks with passion if not precision.
My Father and Other Liars is a thriller set in the near future and takes its heroes, Maurice and Lori-Ann on a helter-skelter chase across continents.
Dead Flies and Sherry Trifle is a coming of age story. Set in 1976 the hero Harry Spittle is home from university for the holidays. He has three goals: to keep away from his family, earn money and hopefully have sex. Inevitably his summer turns out to be very different to that anticipated.
In this, the second book in the Harry Spittle Sagas, it’s 1981 and Harry is training to be a solicitor. His private life is a bit of a mess and he’s far from convinced the law is for him. Then an old acquaintance from his hotel days appears demanding Harry write his will. When he dies somewhat mysteriously a few days later and leaves Harry in charge of sorting out his affairs, Harry soon realises this will be no ordinary piece of work. After all, his now deceased client inherited a criminal empire and several people are very interested in what is to become of it.
The third instalment of the Harry Spittle Sagas moves on the 1987. Harry is now a senior lawyer with a well-regarded City of London firm, aspiring to a partnership. However, one evening Harry finds the head of the Private Client department dead over his desk, in a very compromising situation. The senior partner offers to sort things out, to avoid Harry embarrassment but soon matters take a sinister turn and Harry is fighting for his career, his freedom and eventually his life as he wrestles with dilemma on dilemma. Will Harry save the day? Will he save himself?
Life in a Grain of Sand is a 30 story anthology covering many genres: fantasy, romance, humour, thriller, espionage, conspiracy theories, MG and indeed something for everyone. All the stories were written during Nano 2015.
Salisbury Square is a dark thriller set in present day London where a homeless woman and a Polish man, escaping the police at home, form an unlikely alliance to save themselves.
Buster & Moo is about about two couples and the dog whose ownership passes from one to the other. When the couples meet, via the dog, the previously hidden cracks in their relationships surface and events begin to spiral out of control. If the relationships are to survive there is room for only one hero but who will that be?
Apprenticed To My Mother describes the period after my father died when I thought I was to play the role of dutiful son, while Mum wanted a new, improved version of her husband – a sort of Desmond 2.0. We both had a lot to learn in those five years, with a lot of laughs and a few tears as we went.
Life in a Conversation is an anthology of short and super short fiction that explores connections through humour, speech and everything besides. If you enjoy the funny, the weird and the heart-rending then you’ll be sure to find something here.
When Martin suggests to Pete and Chris that they spend a week walking, the Cotswolds Way, ostensibly it’s to help Chris overcome the loss of his wife, Diane. Each of them, though, has their own agenda and, as the week progresses, cracks in their friendship widen with unseen and horrifying consequences.
Famous poets reimagined, sonnets of all kinds, this poetry selection has something for all tastes, from the funny, to the poignant to the thought-provoking and always written with love and passion.
Look
If you had
One cough
One fever temperature
That could possibly mean COVID-19
With no treatment
Would you stay inside
And not take a trip?
Yo
His plans were ready, two weeks, temperature steady
He’s coughing on his dear aunt Betty, she’s not ready
Needs nurses, clean surfaces, soap and water
Will right wrongs, but sometimes he forgets
To just stay home, he wants to go out
He makes up a route, but can’t even buy trout
He’s breathin’ loud, everybody’s worried now
Masks help in reality, no room now for leavity
Oh, here’s a pandemic, no joke
He feels bad, it’s so tough to be sneezy! Oh!
He can’t have it! No, not COVID, he hopes
To make the curve flatter. At home, he stays there out of soap
It’s so flagrant. The Pope, he wants ventilators in Rome. Hey what’s this?
Back to the lab again yo, make a vaccine ready
Better let go of this Pangolin and hope he don’t eat it
You better, close yourself in you home, your apartment
You know it, you better never, ever, ever go!
You only have one cough, but sneezing is how it grows!
This COVID-19 could end somebody’s lifetime
You better
He sure like’s vaping, could be better at breaking
The lung’s for COVID’s taking
What a fling, China likes the World Health Org’ers
The staying home is boring, and now we’re really closing the border!
His breathing gets harder, fever gets hotter
He blows his nose harder, He knows he should stay in
Host to host blows, he could be a major infector
Lonely homes, job market slows, he’s chosen working from home, near the larder
He stays home, and barely even hears his own laughter
He blows his nose, and here comes the old farter
The store doesn’t have it no more, no toilet products
Virus moved to the next soul it goes, his nose roves and he needs sanitizer
So soap bill just grows, and slows, I hope this whole COVID, the virus goes on
Da-da-dum, da-dum, da-da
You better, close yourself in you home, your apartment
You know it, you better never, ever, ever go!
You only have one cough, but sneezing is how it grows!
This COVID-19 could end somebody’s lifetime
You better
—–
Congratulations, Dumbest Blogger! You are the most terrible poet of the week!
Hands down, these are some of the best parodies out there. For those who didn’t ‘win,’ I hope you publish yours and get YouTube famous (Ritu’s already on her way). Dumbest Blogger, I just couldn’t not recognize the incredible effort you put into parodying so much of Eminem’s famous rap. I mean -“dear aunt Betty”?? Genius.
For a different sort of singalong, here are some chart-toppers:
“If this doesn’t make you sick, then nothing will”
(“Theme from The Love Boat“)
Love, exciting and new
Come aboard. we’re infecting you.
Love, let’s all get in close.
My holiday romance, can I give you a dose?
The love boat, with passengers old and vague
The love boat. Soon we’ll be spreading another plague
Set a course for the hospital
Your mind on rewriting your will
And if I don’t survive this then I sure as heck won’t pay the bill.
Love. That won’t go away.
In the cabin next door
They didn’t wake up today
Love. That we can all share
And finish our cruise in intensive care
The love boat, we’ll soon have the world on its knees
The love boat. Let’s incubate love and disease
Now please step away, ’cause I think I am going to sneeze.
Love. What a wonderful cruise
Where life becomes cheap
Just like the booze
Love. A ménage a trois?
Let’s cough on each other down by the bar
The love boat. Don’t ever pay them in cash
The love boat. More than an embarrassing rash
And if we don’t find safe harbour they’ll be throwing us out with the trash.
—–
“Space For Mom”
(“Stacy’s Mom” by Fountains of Wayne)
Stacey’s mom, she’s got it goin’ on,
Stacey’s mom, she’s always been the one,
Stacey’s mom, since adolescence has begun,
Stacey’s mom, in my dreams she’s coming on.
Stacey can I come over after school (after school)
Can I lay by your pool thinking of your mom (and drool)
Stacey has your mom come back from her New York trip?
The thought of her returnin’ makes my hear flipping skip.
You know, I’m not the little boy you used to see
I’m all grown up, boy, it’s painfully obvious to me.
Stacey’s mom she’s got it goin’ on;
In short, she’s the one for whom I long,
Stacey when I look at you you’re just a girl to me,
Yes, its wrong and creepy, but I’m sweet on Stacey’s mom.
OH- Stacey’s mom has got her hot bikini on,
Guess I’m laid up till my temperature has gone.
Stacey do you ‘member when I mowed your lawn? (your lawn/)
Your mom came out with but a tea towel on (hardly on)
I could tell she liked me from the smile we shared (smile we shared)
I love to see those big beautiful bountiful teeth bared (big teeth bared)
And i think its more than an adolescent fantasy-
But since your dad skipped out, howsabout me as your step-daddy?
Stacey’s mom, she’s got somethin’ goin; on,
Call me slightly sick, but this puppy’s love is strong,
Stacey, I swear she’s blushing bright at me!
Woah, Stace, she’s feverishly flushing, I was wrong,
Sorry Stacey’s mom, this guy’s busy gettin’ gone.
—–
“Barfing on Dad’s old army pants”
(“MacArthur Park” by Richard Harris)
The bus was never waiting for us, girl
It always left when the driver said
We stayed too late at the dance
It departed and we were depressed
In the closet, hot and stuffy,
Along with Dad’s old army pants.
We barfed there in the dark
All the Coke and pizza flowing down.
Then I had to walk home in the rain
Caught a cold, I can’t shake it,
so next week I can’t make it
Cos I’m locked down with the Covid once again.
Oh, no!
Oh, no
No, no
Oh no!!
You put the wheez, wheez into my chest (Cough, cough)
You sent my temperature sky high with your kiss
Social isolation was sending me insane (yeah, yeah)
Guess we were all feeling the same.
But something’s bothering me (ha-ha, ha-ha)
Something ain’t right (ha-ha, ha-ha)
My best friend told me you went out last night (ha-ha, ha-ha)
Left me sleepin’ in my bed (ha-ha, ha-ha)
I was behaving, but you when partying instead (ha-ha)
Wake me up before you go-go
We can still go in pairs, if we lay low
Wake me up before you go-go
I mean I’ll get it from you anyway, ain’t that right?
Wake me up before you go-go
Fever’s not much fun when it’s done solo
Wake me up before you go-go
Covid19 we’ll see you tonight
My fever’s gonna get so high (yeah yeah)
My Corona
My Corona
Ooh, my little deadly one, a deadly one
OK, at the moment I feel…. Fine, Corona
Ooh, you make my fever run, my fever run
Sweats running off me is that a…… Sign, Corona?
If I don’t ever stop, going out, I’m going out of my mind
I’ll get infected from the touch of the unwashed kind
My, my, my, ay, ay, woah!
M-m-m-my Corona
Don’t Come any closer, huh, ah, don’t ya, huh
Not Close enough to look in my eyes, Corona
Keeping six feet away from me,
or you will see, that everyone dies, Corona
If I don’t ever stop, going out, I’m going out of my mind
I’ll get infected from the touch of the unwashed kind
My, my, my, ay, ay, woah!
M-m-m-my Corona
M-m-m-my Corona
Na, na, na, na, na-na
My Corona
When you gonna get to me, get to me
It is just a matter of….. Time, Corona.
Now you’re alone and your house isn’t homely
you can always blame – lockdown
when your still in your jimjams and your mouth is all furry
it’s easy to blame – lockdown
just listen to the silence of no traffic in the city
don’t linger on the sidewalk ‘cos the bug’ll get you dicky
happy to booze
the lights are much safer there
you can forget all your troubles, not bother with your hair
because of – lockdown
things will be smelly because – lockdown
no better place for wine – lockdown
you just need a corkscrew
don’t hang around or let your relatives surround you
plenty of movies on Netflix lockdown
maybe you know little places to go to
take your bottles and never close lockdown
just listen to the sirens through the pain of your hangover
you might join in with ’em too before this thing is all over
outside again
your clothes will be tighter there
‘cos you forgot all your diets, forgot all your cares
so go – lockdown
where all the socialites are light – lockdown
TV dinner for one tonight – lockdown
you’ve just got to sit tight now – lockdown
Lockdown…
Lockdown….
Lockdown….
(etc. etc. chorus fades out to a final deathly silence…)
—–
“Yesterday – A Spoof”
(“Yesterday” by The Beatles)
Nights during lockdown
Never seeming to end
I’m being driven
Right round the bend
People I’m missing
Beyond the front door
Another night with the missus
Oh what a bore!
Cos I’ve Covid
Yes I’ve Covid
Oh I’ve got Covid
Gazing at walkers, six feet apart
Distanced by Covid, not by my worst fart
I’ve taken up jogging, I stop for a breath
People dodge round me, I’m exhaling death
And it’s Covid
Yes it’s Covid
Sodding Covid
I think I’ve caught Covid, my breathing’s all manky
Even the dog starts to panic when I gob in my hanky
My hair’s a right mess, my armpits are smelly
There’s nothing else for it, save to blob by the telly
<Funky bass and drum groove. You know the kind: the one that makes you get up and dance with the window shades open because you don’t care who sees you doing your thing, even if you haven’t worn anything but underwear for the last month.>
Mmm, mmm, mmm…
Oh, it’s a sick house.
He’s just wearing underwear and letting it all hang out.
Ah, it’s a sick house.
Coronavirus, means he can’t go hustle about.
Oh, it’s a sick house.
Those funky symptoms makes her have to quarantine
Yeah, it’s a sick house
Makes her stop and think about her hygiene.
They know they got everything
that a couple needs to ride this thing out.
Toilet paper, wipes and bleach
and 36 pounds of frozen lake trout.
Cause it’s a sick house.
They make a porridge with broth and crushed black beans
in their sick house
cuz they read it cures COVID-19
The itty bitty virus 🦠
Climbed in the human’s mouth
Down to the lungs
It settled right on in
Up with the cough to
Infect the rest of you
And the itty bitty virus 🦠
Goes round and round the world
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
One infected, two infected, three infected, four.
Four infected make a pandemic and so do many more.
Over hill and highway the corona buggies go
Comin’ on to bring you The Corona Up The Shit Creak Show.
Makin up a mess of life
Makin up a mess of jobs
Lot’s of free time for everyone.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
Four infected, three infected, two infected, one.
All not allowed to play outside in the bright warm sun.
Flippin sick of our leaders, poppin like a cork
Guarding the bog rolls with a Pitch Fork
Cov id, id, id, id, id, id.
I get snotty fingers when I blow my nose,
Folk are all around me, and so the virus goes,
It’s spitten in the wind whenever my nose blows-
As they glove up and gown me, a gnawing worry grows.
You know I sniffle I always will,
My runny nose’s never been that big a deal,
Its just a sinus infection but I can’t pretend
This cold’s a nasal nightmare, snot without end.
I see your masked face before me as I lie in my bed,
I kinda regret spreading all the things I spread,
Someone gave a dose to me, I gave it on to you,
Now I’m hyperventilating, feelin’ sad ‘n’ lookin’ blue.
Imagine there’s no bog roll
It’s easy if you try
No real tissue to wipe with
Gonna have to air dry
Imagine all the people without a bidet
Imagine no MacDonalds
No Costa, KFC
On no, what will you eat now?
Gonna have to cook your own tea
Imagine all the people raiding ASDA
You may say I’m a dreamer
Actually I’m not, it’s really on
I hope, some day this Coronavirus
Will feck off and just do one
Imagine kids home schooling
Parents trying to teach
Controlling all their offspring
Voices raising to a screech
Imagine all the adults reaching for the gin
Ooh oh ooh
You may say I’m a dreamer
Actually I’m not, it’s really on
I hope, some day this Coronavirus
Will feck off and just do one
Spoken:
As we don’t gather
On this day to blather
Let me sweetly remind you
About your place in history
Chant:
You are old
Older than dirt
You are old
Not a little squirt
Sing:
Happy birthday to you
You’re not allowed to boohoo
The virus will leave us
Yippe yay, ha-lle-luuuuuu
Congratulations, Ruth! You are the most terrible poet of the week!
We had terrible subject, terrible singing, and terrible wishes. I felt Ruth’s song encapsulated just the wrong sort of thing one wants to hear on her birthday anniversary, plus a lovely dusting of lazy lyrics for that extra bad poetry effect.
(I also hope she sings it to her hubby, whose birthday is tomorrow!)
If you’re needing a ‘lift’ for your own birthday, may I recommend any of the following:
Crappy birther day to you
You smell like one [heck] of a giant half submerged and sticking out of the bowl poo
Crappiest born day dear Mr. Mattttttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhheeeeewwwwww
Crappy birther day
to yooooooooooou
and many more pellets falling out your pants leg
now scurry real fast down to the loo
Happy Birthday to you,
Happy Birthday to you,
Have a cake made of frosted honeydew,
Happy Birthday to you.
Your birthday is soon,
(Is your favorite color maroon?)
Enjoy being another year older
Happy Birthday to you.
+ + + + + + + +
Hey, listen up, this is a poem.
So sit down and don’t you roam.
It might be kinda terrible.
But it’s still bearable.
And I’ve only got one.
So it’s not spareable.
So I hope you sat down because I got something to say:
The Terrible Poetry woman is having a birthday.
Is that cool?
Better than a sliced boule?
Tell me, what do you say?
Who doesn’t like birthdays?
I’m guessing that jellyfish don’t like birthdays because they don’t have brains so they wouldn’t even know what a birthday is if they even knew when their birthday was.
So the Terrible Poetry woman needs a present.
But not a pheasant.
(Ants probably don’t like birthdays either because their brains are really small)
Something more pleasant.
Like a flower.
Happy Birthday Terrible Poetry Woman (and to everyone else in the TPW’s house)
How many birthdays you have seen
So many decades since you were a teen
Happy Birthday Dear Has Been
Happy Birthday to me, now sod off and pour me a Jim Beam
Welcome to the Weekly Terrible Poetry Contest! I’m here, you’re here; let’s write some bad poetry while we’re passing the time together…
Close your eyes and imagine what sorts of poetry you wrote when you very first felt the muse to verse. Do cliché terms come to mind? Over-used emotions? Predictable lines of rhyme? Perfect. Encapsulate that, and then read the specifics for this week:
The Topic is birthdays. You all don’t know this, but March and April are our second Christmas around here. Even my birthday is this time of year.
So, as a birthday gift to me, write a horrible parody of the classic song you sing for someone’s birthday.
The Length will depend on the length of the song you honor.
Songs usually rhyme, so I expect your poem will most likely rhyme as well.
It’s my party, so make it terrible ’cause I want you to. You would cry, too, if I sang, “Happy Birthday to you.”
I’ve got children listening! Keep the Rating a G.
You have till 8:00 a.m. MST next Friday (March 27) to submit a poem.
Use the form below if you want to be anonymous for a week.
If not, and for a more social experience, include your poem or a link to it in the comments. Drop a comment if you try to link back, and it doesn’t show up within a day.
Now I write when I should sleep;
I write so followers I’ll keep.
If I can rhyme before I wake,
Then approbation I will take.
~~~~~
Two souls converged on a bed of wood,
And told each other, “I’m sorry;” both
And; one, rising, sighed with doubt and stood
And looked with as much love as she could
To his messy hair and undergrowth;
Then thought of another, tall and fair,
And how he had tried, her love, to claim,
Because of a black dress she could wear;
Though the dress was gone; pants hung there
Had, to her mind, an effect the same,
And she therefore turned to bed to lay
In satin folds of sheets grey and black.
Oh, if she’d not want another day!
Yet if he’d not shrug; say ’twas her way,
I know he’d not get cold shoulder, back.
I watch and tell ’bout them with a sigh
Somewhere, sometime, and somewhere now hence:
Two souls converged on a bed of wood,
And told each other, “I’m sorry;” both
And that has made all the difference.
Deck your brother if he’s breathing.
Fa la la la la la la la la
Turn to him when you are sneezing.
Fa la la la la la la la la
Practice some jiu-jitsu holding.
Fa la la la la la la la la
Look confused when mom comes scolding.
Fa la la la la la la la la
Fa la la la la la laaaa laaa laaaaaaaaaa.
It’s beginning to sound like pre-plague sneezing
Ev’ry nose we blow
Takes us down to the store, again; for tissues and cough drops, then
The doctor’s office, where the co-pays flow.
It’s beginning to sound like pre-plague wheezing
Sick beds on the floors
And the neighbors and we will be – hanging signs of quarantine
On our own front doors.
Why are there so many
Socks in the dish pan?
I think that the boys have lied.
Socks aren’t a weapon;
Aren’t doilies or dishes.
They shouldn’t be balled up or tied.
So boys’ve been scolded; I doubt they
Were list’ning.
Their feet will be cold, wait and see.
One day I’ll miss it:
The clothes never flying;
And dishes, instead of hos’ery.
