A senorita to open mine eyes,
To walk with me in the morning sunrise.
The initial shock by alarm I stressed,
All broke, her lips to mine are pressed.
Later on, my good friend comes,
And we do discuss with murmuring hums,
The way of the cosmos and all that be,
He with great answers, and I do agree.
The day is spent and what do I see?
A patriarch wrapped with medals; and he,
Tells us all that doth come to his mind,
These heady old thoughts, like a halo, shined.
To these three I dedicate this verse,
Cigarette, Pipe, and Cigar.
If you are the ones to put me in a hearse,
I'll know you were never afar.
By Evan Gunn Wilson
2 comments:
Hey, that wasn't half bad. I think you're getting better at writing poetry. You're not adhering mechanically and rigidly to abstract rules. It's starting to flow a little better.
P.S. Sounds like some poem by Byron... can't quite remember which one, but idk, something about it...
Not quite Byronic: drier humour than his over the top crassness. I did like it, but I felt a need for more images, more metaphors, largely because I liked the ones you had.
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