Year

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First year, last year.

Future year, past year.

Year of grace, year of war.

Twelve months, seasons four.

Count the days, count the hours.

Work like a dog or go pick flowers.

Fresh and clean on New Year’s Day,

time races by and it’s all one-way.

Take this gift of a brand new year,

toast it in brandy, toast it in beer.

Remember, we loved 2015,

now it’s sent to the guillotine!

How to stop time? Well, that’s a trick

You may think me a lunatic.

Love alone stops the old tick tock.

That’s enough, I’ve got writer’s block!

 

 

Baby Poem

 

 

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Not about about babies, it’s about feet.

Here’s your morning doggerel, better than a tweet.

What do we see on the sidewalk snow?

Footprints of passersby, what do they show?

A he and a she, yes we can see that

Were they thin or were they fat?

Were they in love or were they in hate?

Was he her brother or her love mate?

She has little feet, small and dainty

Is she timid, shy and faint-y?

He scuffs along, careless and macho

talking rap talk, hands point – yo, yo!

No, I’m not being fair, maybe he’s a genius

and she’s a real pain, a nag or a lush.

A neighbourhood mystery, who can they be?

A gangster, a refugee or a Ph.D?

Their tracks disapear under fresh snow.

Hey come back here, I’ve a right to know!

Go back home writer, go write your story

Cause this baby poem won’t win ya no glory!

The boy and girl walkers are in the Metro

So run along folks, got no more to show!

 

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