Poem | |
Venice, the daughter of the sea
Winding paths, waterways or cobblestones roads
Rulers of the renaissance, noblemen would be
Her navy full of conquests, her triumphs all would see
From nobility rose, a woman fair
Her life a whirlwind, with her share of despair
Banished from Venice, for daring to speak
Her desires and wit, did many a man seek
The golden rose the pope did give
As she fled to Florence, so young and deceived
Her strength in spirit and a mind so refined
Her friend Marco, the captain, with whom she dined
He parted his wisdom as best he could
He sailed victorious, for Bianca he should
His secret was safe out on the seas
Which is why he and Bianca, could never be
Her royal blood would keep her in stead
As nobility in Florence would turn their heads
Francesco indeed would commission a palazzo
For Bianca his mistress, in waiting, his queen
The Grand Duchy of Florence, all powers bestowed
A seeker of knowledge, of wisdom composed
His Austrian wife, alone, cold and barren
Could not compete, with his love yet to be
They danced, they confided, in each they held
A love of intellect, beauty and lust to be feld
And sadly, one day, the enemies of Venice
Plotted and schemed to bring about a demise
The poison was swift, and an era did end
In a villa in Florence, Francesco was dead
Bianca his love, her beauty unblemished
Fell by his side, and whispered to thee
My dear, my love, it was meant to be
Bianca Cappello (1548 – 17 October 1587)
Note: OK OK I invented 1 new word, that's what poets do
More great poems below...
Poem | |
Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest
Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.
A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.
My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.
He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”
He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”
While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”
As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on. My hands were steady.
Yellow with black dots and a weed guard.
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.
As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.
So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes.
About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”
When the Bass broke water, it scared me.
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook! Set the hook!”
When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.
My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.
“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez. Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed,
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”
He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready. This is the part that’s great.
I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”
Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.
My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”
“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”
“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…
but for the great stories we get.”
I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.
You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.
They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”
Poem | |
« She must suffer to her last breath. (…) They’ll all soon be as Dead as 0-Ren Ishii. »
« That woman deserves her Revenge. And we deserve to die. »
From « Kill Bill Vol. 1 »
Two French girls in Paris
one aged thirteen
the other fourteen
together take wing.
The police bring them back home.
Then hand-in-hand they jump
from their seventeenth floor flat.
They leave behind a note :
« This life has nothing to offer.
What are we living for ? »
An Austrian socialist philosopher-journalist in Paris
in perfect physical health
lies down beside his terminally ailing English wife
never to wake again together
after bequeathing their papers and wealth
not to the Socialist Party
but to a Catholic charity.
He leaves behind a long love letter
his very last remember-me book.
Till death does not do us part.
A Stateless poet passes through Paris
with his Spanish putative spouse
and infant boy.
Paris casts a covetous eye on the mother.
She plans the poet’s murder
and maims her son for life.
The People’s protectors pressgang her
and daily pound the poet to pulp.
Vive ! la France ! Viva ! la Francia !
A lone coyote trumpets over the sakura strewn snow
A moanful flute tugs at nostalgic heartstrings
Meiko Kaji comes on with her plaintive lilt :
We’ve not long to go in this void
The still frozen air gasps through swishing slices
Spurting Strüwel-Peter blood and bones
cherry blossoms on the snow-clad parapet
struck down by the lethally-chilled sheen
of the Hattori Hanzo steel
To kill there need be no will
The will to kill resides in the sill
of the vengeful white of the eye
Even if we can’t stand it any longer, Lady
We’d rather not leave just yet in a hurry
Would we see the likes of this world again
Ever know what’s better than this domain
Unknown to us the slow melodious dirge
Tugs at us : stay yet a while, it whispers !
Who knows who’d be there to receive us
Yes, yes, stay yet a while, little lady !
Hum a sentimental ditty
Recall even a fated memory
Revive some moments of levity :
A friend a face an outing
A little tenderness
A tiny moment of harmony
Together in this wilderness
© T. Wignesan – Paris November 14 2007 (Rev. 2012)
From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan – Paris November 14, 2007 (Rev. 2012)
Poem | |
Otto`s life is not
Grue is his banner
left by his
blue-eyed Brit mom
left long by one of
those hated South
His guilty pleasures
in Green Street have
no recognition like
many such Aussies in
Yet he shovels the
stake of hatred and
As if sheer pain as
tears digged large
A pineapple in
search of an apple
lurking in the dark
reality of snark and
A noir youth
So is his life-an
hackneyed into codes
they call secularism
His way melds
through smog hogs he
hoggard for heydays
eats grief, drinks
Flowers though bloom
on his washed soil
and again bailiffs
Anacronym to London
No star and no moon
and no jack in the
trade that allured
From marijuana to
cocaine he manscaped
Years unheard he
found at last his
living with his
Andalusian mare in
the city of angels
undermined him once
are now just
mere dissidents of
from cartrels in
Cuba to brothels in
to escorts in
Dominican his blood
strengthened in the
verizon of Panama
Enter the new duel
from drugs to
though he remained
dormant in all those
and long drive for
Though warned and
jailed and derailed
a few times from Sao
Paolo to San Antonio
Unfazed a prophetic
man for some
he found new breasts
to grab somebody -a
his broken glass
Women are always
announced him in
Moscow after a trail
of long bellowing
Mistaken and misled
Chillax mood in
Russian vodka and
Austrian redbull and
A highwayman is he
now way away his
breath from their
In New York he bonks
in those trader`s
Brunch with Japan
and now a doting
father of two
Beyond every hatred
what started a
Thanksgivukkah and a
regular blogger in
Poem | |
Lying in a verdant spring field,
scents of fruit and roses permeate the air;
thoughts of you are never far.
They caress like the sun's warm rays,
bringing a suffusion of joy to my heart.
The hum of occasional automobiles
blend with the drone of honey bees
lulling my senses like a Gregorian chant
in an Austrian monastery.
You and nature have become
my tenants of religion,
calming my restless spirit;
soothing my soul,
until I am a placid lake
soaking in all that is you.
More great poems below...
Poem | |
strawberry incense and baby oiled bodies
a twist of lemon in extremely hot toddies
sipped by succulent lips....
spellbound, i set my glass down
austrian crystal no match for a love so profound
she glows golden, silken as satin
whispered words which may as well have been latin
deaf to the world, lost in her mojo
petite hands brush my chest but i remain immobile
do something! say something! my mind screams
but it's such a little voice lost in my wildest dream
i find myself spiraling up the tunnel toward reality
awaken grainy eyed and..... alone
i turn to the headless pillow beside me
Poem | |
i miss the affect and effect
my father's experiences
of mindless mass destruction
that had me pinned to every word
as moonlight on each
shone down on their dugout
'johnny, got a light'
dad lit his zippo
and eric was gone
he didn't hear a thing
no bullet whirr
not even the 'tink' of his helmet
and i think how good it is
to smell life
to sniff an ambush of the heart
under heavy fire as he
forced to headlong a ditch
on the bloated green remains
of the enemy
and promptly puked over its putrid face
and shat himself
he'd not hear the next 'tink'
six hour he laid there
six ****ing hours
and i '****' and carp
as my oh-so convenient
worldwide walkie-talkie bill
dollops the coconut footwipe
and curse the dog crapped patio
can you imagine
i can feel the ****
the blink last glance in the mirror
reflecting how lucky i am
to breathe this chink of words
for your pleasure
tear or revulsion
your notions of a small constellation
and how good it is to eye
those chinks in the dark
that effeminate uncle john
may have faced
but for happenstance
his brother donald being short-fused
had stuck his cornea with scissors
which saw him stage
his most memorable performance
tending the testosterone of gold braid
for the duration
down the salt-watered south
others committed harakiri
for such failing the flag
for humility's sake
or the drip drip drip
of a tortuous rising sun
or the footrot thunder of a flemish field
or sodden wood where
on a sudden an adolescent fritz
no more summers than fifteen
crossed hairs in his eye
and dad sighted
his mutter at home
worried for the safe return of her joy
and her heart broken
by the black edged letter
as he triggered his brain
to a million specks of red
and wept uncontrollably
for an age
the futility and long awaited remembrance
of all those poor bastards whose heroics
led them insane
and blindfolded by their own waste
but it's dog eat dog
someone has to helm the hounds
be the master of bloodshed
suicide dead or alive
when demons rise
and i think of the insomnia
souls nightmared by hazard
horror lost hope
and the monsters that hatched
and slithered rope tricks
to mangoes pineapples
and hog plums
yet how good
to bite the sinful fruit
to feel the thunder of a storm
the cosiness of chintzy-chintzy
chinwags and muffled naughtiness
secreted beneath blankets
amid the cramped inconveniences
of smells and belly rumbles
and the weather speaks gales
blowing from the north
as on the day he reached
a small homestead
somewhere in belgium
a one room
one door where a woman hung
from a knife through the throat
her mammaries and genitalia
ripped from her red
and her daughter
of a few million breaths
swung in the chilled air
from a meathook in a beam
while a sepia'd loved one
stood by and smiled
and i think of the propaganda
the espionage and intrigue
the red herrings meticulously cast
for the irony of a pretend war
enduring the stark misery
but lies can be a bonus
in extreme circumstances
to assuage the inevitable hurricane
in the apple of its eye
and how good it is
to feel the skin and wetness
of gooseflesh giggling
to laugh a moment's relief
as father's platoon
in a lull from fear and sunshine
as they smoked and dusted their boots
through the ardenne forest
hundreds of them
when a whistle shellshocked the blood
pumping from the neck of
a glaswegian from peckham
who loved his potatoes greasy
after several headless footfalls
they never found his looks
and dad hungered how good
another chance of roast pork
and a handshake would be
and i think of the logistics
that beggars belief
and how much better equipped
to manage death than life
with all the fields that have harvested
bones of memories
blood rusted metal
medals hung from heroes
and arseholes alike
and i think of the what ifs
had little maria schicklgruber
drowned in a viennese lake
had hitler a bullet with his name
in world war one
the lives that would have had
their due iceblink of this gift
this diamond moment
to experience sunups
of love as i've been blessed
because an austrian megalomaniac
choreographed my parents footsteps
affecting and effecting your life
with my words
Poem | |
In a village near mine an old man lives, so ancient
a TV station took an interest and interviewed him,
they thought he must be 104 or more. I looked at
the face his mustache, white and he had gone bald;
spoke Portuguese with a heavy Austrian accent.
No doubt in my mind I was looking at Adolf Hitler.
To my deep suspicion and when asked about his
longevity said he a vegetarian but liked strudel,
told the village policeman about it, but first I had
to tell him who Hitler was; a shoulder shrug, all so
long ago no point going into all this now.
I called the TV station they hung up on me, but
not before I heard their unqualified laughter.
What am I to do? Can´t just chain myself to him
and take him to Hague…he´s too infirm for that.
A last resort is to send an email Israel, ask them
to let Mossed (their homicide department) send
a couple of agents and take care of the matter.
Poem | |
Praise to the beautiful mountains and lakes,
The humble log abode that provides a home,
Where the parents and children of Austria live.
The wooden table where they sit and dine,
Delicious foods prepared, freshly baked bread,
Cheeses and cakes and cookies,
Dinners cooked to perfection,
The bright dirndls the women wear,
And the lederhosen worn by the men,
Evenings of good music and singing,
An exquisite destiny to visit again.
Author:Gwen Meyer-Erlach Schutz
Poem | |
black and white picture of an
austrian girl with a torn coat
watching angels drown sinners
to see if they float.
arms of clouds folded in a
blackened charcoal burns into the sky
faster and faster.
yet still the museum curator seekes to find.
recessed lighting on the wall behind.
but all he found was white and black.
to hang a picture of a girl on a tack.
while outside lamps look down
with dizzy heads.
words over cobble stones that have
contrasted by copper wheels
that charge at night.
nocturnal powerlines reserve
Poem | |
No Butter? (when a country practice monopoly)
“Butter, the chef said, I can’t fry a snitzel without butter? If I use margarine
it gets too salty and tastes like whale, if I use olive oil, it gets a Portuguese
flavour, a snitzel is Austrian. How can you fry an egg without using butter,
one loses the taste of clover and rural idyll, farm yards and chickens looking
for worms?” ” Sorry the restaurant manager said, but we have no butter,
you gotta use margarine and anyway the guests are not chefs they will not
notice the difference.”The chef looked aghast, put down his ladle and said:
“You can’t mean that, has all my work comes to nothing?” Took off his apron,
had tears in his eyes, ready to walk out into the cold night and not return.
“Hang on the manager said, without you I can’t run this place, it is the caring
way you prepare food that our guests like you they know there is a butter
shortage, but they don’t mind as long as they now you are the chef.”
Mollified the cook took his apron back on lifted his ladle and said, “Ok, but
see if you can get some butter even if you have to buy it from the Danes.
Poem | |
Across the Swiss and Austrian Alps
brutal gusts steadly blow,
calling for heavy snowflakes
dancing as lost butterflies...
falling as summer's lonely stars.
Ginger bread smells good,
honey in tea is superb;
I inhale the steamy swirls that
jackrabbits love to smell.
Kaffe Klatsch is strong
lurching through their nostrils,
making them too hyper.
Northern Italy's wooden shacks
over the wide, frigid vallies...
point to a warmer South
quiet only at evening or night.
Roam as deer on snowy slopes,
stunning is the alpine scenery:
trees as tall as redwoods
ululate louder than hungry wolves...
vulnerable to snowdrifts' attacks.
Watch the skiers having fun,
xelophones making music,
yummy polenta being eaten...
zealous alpinists singing.
Poem | |
Thunder clouds roll back, rain does succomb
shepheards emerge their flock
sunrays, brightens the horizon
mountain range, as far as the eye can see
The far distance , a sand block castle
the fore ground a humble village
goats lapping the bulging lake
sparrows emerging with song thrush
As children run playfully from their home
pointing to the sky, rainbow a picture
two lovers take to the lake,she seated
he stood, poll rowing.
Poem | |
Altdorf is a lovely village along the Reuss.
It has beautiful scenery that is choice.
What nerve these Austrians have in this town.
I think that Hermann Gessler is a clown!
He puts his hat on top of a pole in the town square.
We have to bow before it when we are there.
I and my son Walter would do no such thing.
We were both arrested for defying.
I told them I am not Austrian. I am Swiss.
My son and I will be put to death because of this.
We have one opportunity to escape the dead.
I must shoot an apple off my son’s head.
There is one fact that just about anyone knows:
I am very adept when in comes to handling crossbows.
If I accomplish this feat, we will earn our freedom.
There must be a way to quash this Austrian scum.
Thanks to wikipedia.org online encyclopedia for information I obtained to write this poem.
Poem | |
I dream of Austria and the beauty of the country,
God's perfect winter postcard.
The town of Igls, the rooftops and tall spruces, touched with snow,
The Latin church that stood tall.
A visit with God at Christmas,
Beautiful memories and walks through the village.
Where the mountain stood majestic in the background,
Skiis on my back, dressed in a warm nordic red sweater and cap and black ski pants and boots.
I belonged with the village,
Ski lessons of the finest.
Learning to ski, like a gentle bird on the slopes,
My instructor handsome and tall, teaching excellence in skiing guested.
The top of the mountain where my second ski instructor also good-looking,
Empowered us to ascend to the highest mountain in Austria.
The Patscherkophfle, majesty among mountains,
After two weeks of instruction I chose to ski to the ski lift.
And return to the mountain base, my vacation complete,
My warm chalet welcomed me.
Author: Gwen Schutz
Poem | |
There is a sparrow-hawk souring high and low around a huge forest,
Searching, just above the ground into the farm lands and gardens,
He swoops down in a morning sun an atmosphere soft and delightful,
Like a bullet over cowslips and primroses, there is one less robin,
His tail is long and slim it sets him apart from the other hawks,
He flies through his skies clipping the abundant nightingale wings,
Although his eyes see for miles he flies fast and near the ground,
Young pheasants hide in the rich green grass of a lush hidden meadow.
The secret meadow has been left untouched and alone for many years,
Home to the Austrian briar, Guelder roses and fiery orange poppies
Enjoying the peace of a spring morning the grass rich with clover,
The hawk catches a small bird that hangs in the air and swoops away.
The air of the grass is delicious, scattered flowers nod in a breeze,
Butcher-birds are noisy a sure sign that they have some young chicks,
Turtle-doves are abundant in the near by forest well hidden by thorns,
Above all, in an old oak a hawk sits watching, waiting for his dinner.
Poem | |
when she met the homely older man with the big nose,
shoulders hunched about his ears as if to ward off further blows,
she married him and moved far away
and at first it was okay
grateful for every day
admiring herself in the looking glass
every day that he expressed his adoration
in every way except penetration
and his impotence drove him to drink
as she stood staring at the sink
and wonderered how it all went so wrong
her dream had been so strong
that she would lead a perfect life
be a perfect wife
though she tried, she tried,
her facade so flawless she was able to hide
kept it all inside
until the anguish brought pain
crippling and insane
every day, every day
only the strongest drugs held it at bay
making her almost catatonic stumbling through the day
and maybe if she ignores these kids of hers they will go away
three thousand miles from home
and all she'd ever known
how she'd tried to fit in
every day the pain would win
and bring her to her knees
oh, please, oh, please,
and the only friend she'd ever made
she eventually betrayed
their friendship was shallow
the only reason she kept up the sallow
farce was minimal
a common language
she overlooked the fact that she was Austrian
(despied by the Swiss)
her father a Nazi war criminal
but, hell, at least she was someone to have over for tea
and speak her native tongue
social climbing rung by rung
the real shame of this fake
was that her only friend's husband was a handsome rake
and stirred feelings deep inside her that she had never felt before
and she craved more
and the drugs, homesickness, loneliness, self centeredness,
impotense and desire
burned out of control like a fire
and warped into perversion
her son became her diversion
innocense lost in the worst way
and even when he ran away at sixteen
nothing was ever addressed
but she could no longer molest
and her will was finally broken down
by this Austrian clown
his charm, so suave, his charm
that caused so much harm
her only friend betrayed
Poem | |
I love listening to Bach on late evenings, especially his flowing ‘Ave Maria’,
just as I like tuning in to Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’, far too many Ave Marias!
Nothing compares to Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata', it’s simply beautiful;
George Handel had he lived would have found Ludwig’s piece rather cool.
Amadeus Mozart, truly he was a musical genius, that Austrian son-of-a gun,
it’s high there among the classics, the elegant ‘Theme from Elvira Madigan’.
Give me Antonin Dvorak’s ‘New World Symphony’, so serenely majestic,
that, like Tchaikovsky’s ‘Concerto in 1st Movement’, creates instant magic.
Let me tell you a little secret: my days in the cradle had long ago passed by
yet, till this day I drift off to dreamland with a few strains of Brahms’ ‘Lullaby’.
Chopin he tinkers with his piano dreamily, that young romantic Polish chap -
etudes, nocturnes, mazurkas, you name it, though he could not do hip-hop.
I adore the songs of Bobby Dylan, though not necessarily his croaky voice;
honestly, I prefer listening to other minstrels sing his tunes, if given a choice.
Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins, those gals sounded to me so fine;
I once volunteered to produce them but they said “Are you out of your mind?”
Could not do nothing with the three J’s, so I turn to Lennon & McCartney
who once rocked my childhood with their irresistible “yeah, yeah, yeah”.
Leonard Cohen, does that man ever smile? so moody and stark his music
but I love him anyway, though figuring out his lyrics often makes me sick.
Denver and Donovan’s stuff are sugary for my taste at times I would say
and there are occasions when I crave for songs that sound kinda lonely.
So I often give way to my old buddy from country land, Kristofferson man,
and let his somber ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’ get me all undone.
Sad songs, joyful songs, all styles, will they ever come in just one package?
so I won’t have to spend much on CDs that is straining my minimum wage.
Given those great musical influences I have painstakingly mentioned above,
it is a sure bet I am off to greatness if I just behave and do what I truly love.
Poem | |
My Dearest Carlotta,
my beloved inamorata,
you must be back in Austria,
far away from this dilemma.
I was an Austrian prince.
I let Napoleon convince
myself of greatness.
As an emperor and empress,
we would make great progress.
When you took my hand,
we had a great land.
Believing it all
I ignored his recall.
It led to our downfall.
I was merely a puppet on a string
controlled by a faraway king.
We possessed a title with our name.
However, in lieu of fame,
I have brought us shame.
Little did I know
at the town of Queretaro,
there would be an ignominious defeat
in the searing summer heat.
All my forces crumbled.
I am now in a small cell humbled.
Please hear my plea.
Please forgive me
for my gullibility.
I could not foresee
this fall into ignobility.
We have parted
leaving me broken hearted.
History must take its course.
Juarez shows no remorse.
I now await my demise
at tomorrow’s sunrise.
Your loving husband,
Poem | |
An Austrian sachertorte
A Canadian date cake
Russian rhubard cakes
Poem | |
I picked wild berries, gathered ripening grapes
and tasted life's bittersweet wine.
From fountains of youth by the river shore
I spilled the gold from the Rhine.
In Caucasian Mountains and the Austrian Alps
I sought the elusive Edelweiss;
Wild columbines I found in West Virginia
where I searched for paradise.
Keeping pace with my children's
laughter and tears,
my Rhine castles in sand faded away
and I entered a vernal quietness
in the dawn of a different day.
When I traded past splendor
for "Almost Heaven"
to cross a defining sea and new life,
I found that the quest for beauty
was ever a part of me.
Poem | |
The rugged mountains strong and welcoming,
The singer embraces them with a love of God,
His friendliness caresses the forests and flowers,
A voice that sings to the reindeer and the wild life,
His loyal companion, a beautiful and friendly dog,
A picnic on the mountain, table cloth and picnic basket,
His handsome figured dressed in the austrian costume,
He commands the greatest respect,
A village that adores him and his charming ways,
A paradise that you could only imagine,
I wish to be his sleeping beauty dressed in an austrian dirndl
To be kissed and awakened by the handsome prince,
Who said storytales come true, only with God.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz