Short Poems

Mycilla dyes her locks, 'tis said,
But 'tis a foul aspersion;
She buys them black, they therefore need
No subsequent immersion.

No coins to buy my firewood,
I sweep up leaves, sell them in the temple town,
leaf on leaf precious as yellow gold,
pile on pile with a beauty of red brocade.
I chide myself for dreaming of warm knees,
long for their beauty to cheer my cold heart.
Back from town I light the stove, sit by it,
listening to drops of rain on the stairs.

Night makes no difference 'twixt the Priest and Clark;
Jone as my Lady is as good i'th'dark.

No funeral gloom, my dears, when I am gone,
Corpse-gazing, tears, black raiment, graveyard grimness;
Think of me as withdrawn into the dimness,
Yours still, you mine; remember all the best
Of our past moments, and forget the rest;
And so, to where I wait, come gently on.

No dignity without chromium
No truth but a glossy finish
If she purrs she's virtuous
If she hits ninety she's pure

ZZZZZZZZZ!
Step on the gas, brother
(the horn sounds hoarsely)

COMPENSATION

N O ceaseless vigil with hard toil we keep,
And to grim want give but a passing breath;
For after labor comes the rest of sleep,
And hunger cannot make its home with death.

Nine adulteries, 12 liaisons, 64 fornications and something approaching a rape
Rest nightly upon the soul of our delicate friend Florialis,
And yet the man is so quiet and reserved in demeanour
That he passes for both bloodless and sexless.
Bastidides, on the contrary, who both talks and writes of nothing save copulation,
Has become the father of twins,
But he accomplished this feat at some cost;
He had to be four times cuckold.

A nimble cat and lazy maid,
Breed household feuds and are no aid;
But lazy cats and nimble maids,
Beyond all doubt, are greater plagues.
Once, now and then, the cat may eat,
But snoops the maid in ev'ry plate,
And makes the purse and cellar low.
How e'er it hits, there is no dough .

The night will never stay,
The night will still go by,
Though with a million stars
You pin it to the sky;
Though you bind it with the blowing wind
And buckle it with the moon,
The night will slip away
Like sorrow or a tune.

The night was growing old
As she trudged through snow and sleet;
And her nose was long and cold,
And her shoes were full of feet.