Mortifying

‘Bout halfway down some poem’s vent

I missed a writing implement

And so went I to Aime’s sphere

A pen or pencil to adhere:

Retrieved a biro, scarcely chewed,

Hacked out verisimilitude.


We had a working partnership,

You and I, biro, quip and whip,

Yes we got on completely braw,

Me and you, sired out of law,

I kept you folded at my breast

With pads and keys at my thought’s nest


In the grey overcoat I slept

Within extra-collegiate space;

Through the grey overcoat you crept

Into the lining’s carapace.


Do you know those whinnying moments?

- no, biro, I address my friends –

Do you know those whinnying times

With wind in hair and a clear way ahead,

When you speed up and revel in your walk,

And think, damned good am I. Then struck the hawk.


Its bead now drawn upon my (comely) thigh,

The dolorous biro always carves on time,

When I am not, for punctuality

My biro bears in mind. Better, pride’s purge.


A certain Millie, willow celebrant,

I fiercely regarded by Hussein’s.

“You really love me,” remarked erring she –

The traitor stabs. Squeak. She: “Fond as I am…”


Fair’s fair, and scissors could it liberate;

But at my greatcoat’s cost would I baulk fate;

So Aime’s biro, and my wounds, will stay.

The moral compass needle has its say.


Accordingly, I’ve relapsed to typed verse.