PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

"Of course I'll have another drink," she says,

In tones of light now turned dark red,

As I move towards the cardboarded girth,

Of silver bladdered cask of dirth,

To place the glass beneath the tap,

And let flow a wash of poor man's wealth,

That I must tip my sobriety and cap,

To the remains of any life left and health.

As the last drop folds into the once chalice,

That held the future of a kingdom of men,

That calls forth the remnants of drinking ends,

To place now amused before the girl of Paris.

To the tale I have little steel or nerve,

To once more endure or submissively serve.



She gives a smile and a look of thanks,

And the child in our hearts tries to look a prank,

As I say, "Don't mention it. Was nothing at all."

And she laughs and carries the truth in the call,

Of supply, supply me with a festooned gate,

With words of welcome that none can chance,

And memory lost has no need to relate,

To feverish grasping but a waltz and a dance.

And the worth of a man who be no worth at all,

In pocket or providence and pesky reprove,

To callous and cruel with nothing to lose,

And stacks it low at under seven feet small.

But measures the merits in a bucket and mop,

For it is without effort that true love be lost.



As we finish our tipple and turn out the lamp,

It is with the sound of a breathing damp,

That we begin with a rech and a cough and a sneeze,

That only with each other will feel at ease,

To purge our's of the daily grind we finish,

That we continue each day to duly inolve,

That takes us distances far from "in it",

To the now well placed curtly resolve.

That the giving and taking of life's great gifts,

Is all in a day's travaille some say,

But no questions of means to collect a pay,

Is then to rub hands and savour licks,

But no not the profit nor the coin in the pocket,

But the lift and guided glide of another Mars rocket.



©R.H.Elliott 2003