It's such a pleasant pastime
The hours simply fly.
Before they know it's time to go
But who will make the try
O who will have the fortitude
To rise and first depart
Knowing full well the hungry horde
Is dining on her heart!
Hobson's Choice
Life is a rose
And life is a thistle -
And life is the screech of a steamboat's whistle
But nevertheless - if you asked the Dead
They'd probably choose to be in your bed!
Letter from Paris
You write of Paris like a man
Telling of the woman he loves.
There is love in the lines that draw the city under rain;
The higgeldy-piggeldy garrets
That climb crazily against the tender pink of the sky;
Montmartre, with the cafés, just as you'd read they'd be!
Everything just as glamorous . . . just as exciting
A gay … a mocking . . . a shining, shimmering place
A feminine city!
Your regret at leaving Paris
Is like parting from a woman.
Paris has wounded you
With her loveliness!
Conjecture
Why should I think of you
As a Perewinkle?
Retired . . .
Out of sight in your shell . . .
Safe!
I wonder what would happen
If once again in your lifetime
Someone, armed with a sharp pin,
Pricked you into the daylight?
Time Was
When you were here, life did not run
In prim and ordered placid rows
The sky was full of spinning stars
And laughter danced upon its toes!
"Track"!