A reader asked for something a bit less gloomy in the way of verse, and … for some damned reason I cannot and/or will not explain … this popped out.
(And I had such a serious post in mind … sigh … )
“That damned moon … ”
What happens when there is no time
to run around or fake it
When nothing will come out in rhyme
and all those feelings so sublime
are just left hanging on the line
awaiting actions, not just mime,
(tequila might help … hold the lime)
and little presents, only slime …
We don’t need that, and, in fact, I’m
still here, and being in my prime
too ready just to make it.
We’re cheated out of hours in days
and years and months and minutes
They scream past in so many ways
so fast they’re just a blurry haze
too few yeses … mostly nays
cause turning down potential lays
(some might have come with mayonnaise!)
What sort of price is that we pays?
That damned moon just solicits bays …
the heat in me was NOT a phase …
Where is the time for “in it”s?
Perhaps, it’s just an island thing
that has me waxing corny
I’ve taken off that goddammed ring
(It’s been a while since the last “sting”)
and, yes, I was fond of the bling,
but bowing down before the king
although fun, was just a fling
and now another ding-a-ling
could send me flying on the wing
and, lordy, lordy, how I’d sing …
cuz truth is, folks, I’m horny.