adventures in dysthymia

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Bride, a poem

Bride

They came wit’out warnin’ —
’twas Sunday mornin’ —
wit’ cudgels and rocks
t’give me my knocks
an’ take back their sister.
I couldn’t resist ’er
an’ stoled ’er away
on Saturday!

We’re married, I said;
not if you’re dead,
came the reply —
I’d rather not die,
given my rathers.
Every fool blathers
’bout how love conquers;
they’re all bonkers.

Go wit’out pause
if your in-laws
have murder in their eyes —
’tis only wise,
an’ better to run
when you’ve had your fun,
say adieu,
find someone new!

Stephen Brooke ©2016

Some silliness that somehow appeared on my laptop last night.

Post a Comment