The Ribbonwood Lane
Reprise.
Down Ribbonwood Lane,
the ladies did stray
the children and buses
on their way
the cloudless sky joins
the fray
the days when love
abounds.
Down Ribbonwood Lane
the Jesuits do ply,
their daily trade as
cars whiz by,
parishioners set to
live and die
days when life
resounds.
Down Ribbonwood Lane
the cattle do chew
pastures of chaff and
Ribbonwood stew,
the children just don’t
know what to do,
days when longing is
bound.
Down Ribbonwood Lane
the cars drive past,
the longer the laughter
the bigger the blast,
the food at McDonalds
exorbitantly fast,
days when rogues are
found.
Down Ribbonwood Lane
the cycle of life
the lonely vagabond
causing strife
a butcher waves his
cutting knife
days when ladies are
profound.
Down Ribbonwood Lane a
painting is born
the hunter puffs on his
Hunting Horn,
the lost children all
forlorn
days when babies
compound.
Down Ribbonwood Lane
the skies are Black
the welcome sign says
“Welcome back”,
the herding chains sag
so slack,
days when basketballs
rebound.
Down Ribbonwood Lane
the lights shine bright,
such is the feeling
deep in the night,
the cars turn left,
then turn right,
days when night sounds.
Why Don’t God
Speak to Me
Mummy, why don’t God
talk to me?
I mean I pray, and
beseech him
and I never hear him
answer,
yet Daddy and you and I
go to church
and we sing and praise
and pray
yet still God don’t
wanna talk to me.
Daddy, does God talk to
you at all,
I mean you’re a man
of God, like Mummy
you both have a good
time glory hallelujah,
and both have good
lives, has God ever talked to you?
Dear God, I’m praying
to you still
I’m no longer 8, now
a stoic 17
but you knew that, now
didn’t you,
I’m getting paranoid
all the time
wondering when you will
answer
whether I’m worthy of
your kingdom
if such a kingdom
exists!!
Dear Old Fella Up Top,
I’m 49 now
I think I heard you
when I went mad
such a sad time to be
the ambulance
stuck well and truly at
the bottom of the cliff.
Hole in a Fine Wig
Someone stole my hole,
bereft I be
it’s wholesale
slaughter of epic proportions
as I loll neath the
bole in my favourite tree.
Darkness draws coal in
a fire hole
where flames leap and
dance
sort of hyperbole of
the cakehole.
Someone rigged my wig
with fine hair
a wiggle here and
there, I don’t give a fig
to sate myself, I take
a swig of Twigs fine brew
there is a fine Brig
holding drunk sailors
who think it’s big of
them to be there
I rig myself with the
days distrust and swig again.
Someone stole my fine
line, a beauty to be sure
the wine in the casket
echoes my attire finery,
a refined gentleman I
be, that’s thine stance,
it’s doubly difficult
the tine on the fork says
as romantics dine on
salad and tuna, sublime
the refinery pumps out
more juice for thirsty workers.
No comments:
Post a Comment