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Ah! Sweet tobacco, sheer delight,
a good companion since I was young.
From first taste at the age of ten
I am in enchantment of its joy since then.
In the media are often heard and seen,
honest spokesmen who do not indulge,
argue the case for the civil right
to smoke where ever, day or night.
And the protagonists who sit on companies’ boards,
are shamefully accused of gaining hoards
from supplying tobacco to the poor and young
that they as well, can join the fun.
It has been obvious to us all along,
that the medical evidence is frankly, wrong.
Because smoking may cause a cough,
the Nanny State would warn us off.
In restaurants my drifting smoke is not considered rude,
patrons happily all agree, it complements the food.
Decorative, ample ashtrays are freely provided too
to maintain pristine conditions and hold the smokers’ residue.
Waving a slender cigarette, I feel chic and smart
Imagining myself an actor, playing the tough-guy leading part.
But now and then worryingly, my cough brings up some blood.
I will have my doctor cure it soon, lest it becomes a flood.
I shall draw upon the delicious cigarette,
to the last fragrant tasting one I get
despite the malignant tumour growth,
that is said could grow in my vulnerable throat.
When I attend the practice of my zealous, smart GP,
his medical team, as one voice, blame the state of my health on me.
Saying that smoking increases risk of a multitude of cancer,
and the immediate cessation of the habit is the only prudent answer.
Burning tobacco releases poison compounds in a flood
inhibiting Haemoglobin delivering Oxygen by the blood.
Tar, Nicotine and Arsenic a deadly mix as well,
is a curse upon humanity, an evil brew of Hell.
I would yet sing tobacco’s praise to Heaven
and thunderous hallelujahs shout
had the surgeons at the hospital
not cut my cancerous voice box out.
I feel though , the Tobacco Company’s chairman
will come to say a fond goodbye
when the time arrives of abandoned hope
and I must painfully, submit to die.
Gravitation manifests itself
In the inverse of a square
It is thought to reach far wide in space
And be present everywhere
Bending space and its light and its time
All in a massive paradigm
It keeps things in their allotted place
Giant galaxies in constant motion
The hot bright light of collapsing suns
Flooding through the spatial ocean
The founding force of all created
Ever driving never sated
Hope is strong and often cited
All theories to become united
Fused together in one equation
Unlocking the mystery of creation
Then our wisdom will be beyond compare
And I shall understand m c and its astounding square
In an arid land of scrub and sand
where empty rivers lie,
each patch of shade is occupied
few birds fly in the sky.
From the blue above the ceaseless sun
gazes throughout the day
and numbing chill that brings all ill,
at night time has its sway.
Thoughts are for Ireland’s misty rain
and all the life it brings;
the lush green growth of shrub and tree,
the wooded hillside and honey bee,
lakes and rivers,
the sparkling sea,
and along the way from bush and hedge,
the thriving wild bird sings.
My lady made a hairdresser call
arranging an appointment for two
putting her trust in their hands,
assuming they knew what to do
She sat there relaxed in a chair
thinking of how it would be
there were sounds of shears from the back
but the front part was all she could see
Then the long hair she once used to toss
was lifelessly strewn on the floor
she came home with tears welling up
and vowed to go there no more
Looking in the mirror she sobbed
I am feeling the pain of her loss
with her crowning glory quite gone
and tousled hair cut all en brose
I was a teenager left school three years
My future was doubts and some fears
I frequently sought advice from the wise
But my hopes didn’t materialise
I was a digger of holes in the ground,
A piler of earth on a mound,
A packer of goods on a stack
A bearer of sacks on my back
I was a grey faced shadow in line,
A claimant with form to sign,
A shabby figure muffled in scarf
A statistic drawn on a graph.
I’m a kitted out killer with gun,
A champion of faith from the Hun
A target for bullet and fire,
A bloody corpse hung on a wire.
With racquet and shuttle my Friend’s at the net
My spirit is bounding with joy since we met.
She crouches before me her arm raised like sails
We are playing at love in a ballet of flails.
Running, I am running my pulse pounding fast
But I am wishing this sweet pain would last and would last
Losing or winning I don’t care the score
I am sixty-three soon, I feel twenty-four.
The game then is finished we hug in embrace
My heart’s a trip hammer; she is all poise and grace
But deep down within I sense it must end
She will dismiss an old man and say, “You are a friend”
Then with an ocean of gloom and my sadness so bleak
I shall not recite verse; not be able to speak.
But time is a healer and my philosophy is strong
So I will knuckle my tears and go jogging on.
O yea! Sir knight has returned to his castle,
his pennant hangs lifeless and limp.
Heart taxed with emotion
his gloom is an ocean
for his lady has called him a wimp.
The name of his dwelling from this day
has been changed to the Great Castle Bleak.
No torches illumine the Feast Hall,
music is not heard, nor footfall.
There is nothing for him left to seek.
But ‘list! a braying of trumpet
then the portcullis’s rusty old winch,
admits a horseman with saddlebags
containing a bundle of The Monarch’s old gags.
He has dashed here tonight in a pinch.
Sire! My Liege would bid me greet you,
he says that you have had it quite rough
but once, one’s a King,
one is always a King
but once a Night’s more than enough.
May 1263 AD
Some people like to chatter on,
their voices sound an endless song,
never wavering or deterred
by futile interjecting word.
Rushing onward with their passage
to joyously present the message.
What they have to say can't wait,
in Rudeness Stakes a Silver Plate.
Courtesy, manners and conversation
all sacrificed in competition
to utter words that forms a block,
so companions make no answer back.
A dialogue so sweet and gentle,
may soon decay and disassemble
and monologue ensue from there,
assailing gratingly, the ear.
I discarded the net and played tennis.
From that moment, the game was just fine.
Hitting top spin forehands to backhand
I won the point almost each time.
My performance was clever and flashing,
the opponent emitted a sob
but what crushed his spirit completely
was a well-executed topped lob.
i am a convert now to expression
free of all rules and restrain
and when people talk condition and detail
they are dismissed as insufferable pain
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