Author Information
Upon A Far Lament
'Tis a sorry part,
I have to tell about the dame,
Who would chatter at the well,
But tells she run right out of game.
I am sure there's still the boy,
Who batters back the lids,
And the surety of provision,
By the husband for the kids.
But alas I still hold dear,
The vessel sat with me there,
And do portion out a tear,
For the profanity of care.
But for all it did amount,
A coloured, textured waltz,
And I really still can't count,
The peppers from the salts.
But for all our banteered meets,
And the cup I still hold dear,
I would do it all again,
If I could hold you near.
