PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

How often the figure of the developed,

And to be in a dim room fully developed,

Chances to ask the time in a flighty way,

And again one asks "What is the hurry?"

And again they turn to heel and say,

"I am painting," in a departing flurry,

And I turn to tears and bray, "He's dropped me."

As the movement stops, sighs and offers,

"Come clean my brushes with your bothers,"

"With some lovely tea and sconnes,"

With a lifting smile my hand she carries.

As I moan,"Why don't any of the bastards,

"Ever want to get bloody married?"