Caught in the crosshairs of love
and it’s no dove but my heart flutters anyway,
anyway it can to do the can-can,
for I’m beset on more than one side,
and neither are my good side,
but ones that show me up in a bad light
despite my determination to do right.
I feel squeezed into a corner
wearing the tricorn dunces’ hat.
That’s where this love is at.
The collective for a group of elephants is a Memory,
because they all share in one as they roam
across their common home beneath the sun.
Each and every one committed to their memory’s survival,
despite the depredations of mankind, their deadliest foe
and so, kind in this cruel context is a misnomer
of the grossest kind, the whole world over.
John Donne was bitten by God’s flea,
which sucked his blood and set him free.
Didn’t make it into church today, felt wobbly and weak.
My head throbbed and I was hungry but not unduly meek.
Instead of donating to the service plate I’m off for a pub lunch
hoping that it doesn’t lead to an eternity in hell, but in a brunch.
I’m home now sated on roast beef, potatoes and Yorkshire pud.
Perhaps not a holy combination but I certainly feel good.
One can pray all day for miracles, but eating is the key
to feeling well and energised and from temptation free.
Today I got the hoover out and pushed it all about,
rooting out balls of fluff nestled in the corners.
I suspect they had their counterparts within,
after all, cleanliness is next to godliness we are assured.
So, what could be more conducive to the soul’s progress
than getting on top of this domestic mess?
I even got down on my hands and knees to scrub
the kitchen floor to please the Lord above.
Chores not clothes maketh the man.
They say great men have unhappy youths or sleep with a great many.
From Alexander’s time onwards they’ve been equivocal about the fanny.
Although it’s fair to say that Lord Byron had an affair with his half-sister,
the ensuing scandal caused the incestuous bard to gallantly desist her.
However, his daughter, Ada Lovelace, went on to pioneer computing,
an achievement the significance of which there can be no disputing.
Sigmund Freud was prone to probe the riddle of the Sphynx.
Sir Isaac Newton was a vicious man to cross, he regarded foes as finks.
Leonardo was a bastard who wrote backwards and failed to consummate
many of his commissions, while Hans Christian Anderson just failed to mate.
And John Ruskin, the great art critic, as everyone’s aware
fainted at the sight of his wife’s pubic hair.