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My Bludgeoned Response.
My merriment make it the fill,
Of those too poor or wantonedly ill,
That calls upon small grains of sand,
To fall through fingers, fall through hands,
That call upon we all shall call,
Upopn those whose smitten here do fall,
With punches, clinches and breaks that take,
The worst Almighty from the sake;
Of Children, dogs and cats that have,
Danced upon a bronzed, old spoon,
But seen the rose reflect the moon.
And made it sorry and made it glad.
But wish I another bench of sorts,
The madman cries, of course, of course!
But here you may find another smite,
Upon the the ones of love tonight.
For their endurance had to be,
Another block with the the soul to shee,
For we cry and weep alone,
With every merit of our own home,
But Childs and pets are left bereft,
With all that they hoped were best
That no-one can take or keep,
More moments with the grimmace sheaf,
But merry and one it does unfold,
That telling sleep of life' relief,
Black, long and hard for all to see,
And goes into the lone so bold,
A licorice strap is held and taken,
My mother soul it does awaken.
(c) Richard.H.Elliott. 2005
