The Poet, the Damsel and the Painter
Cosy as the warmest summer’s breeze,
Reclining poet there beneath the tree’s,
Yellow sunshine dapples ‘ore the leaves,
A picnic basket too, can you believe!
Daffodils abound along the stream,
And lazy clouds drift by as in a dream,
Little butterflies, that flutter ‘round,
And rabbits gently flop on softest ground.
The poet’s lady sits with him as well,
With milk white skin, of all she is the belle,
Lip’s more lavish than cherries on the bush,
And when he looks at her she starts to blush!
Into the ink he dips his pointed quill,
This laureate raises eyebrows with his skill,
‘A moment please ‘- for I must wipe my brush,
To paint this scene, so lovely and so lush!
The paint swirls on my pallet like whipped cream,
This couple on my canvas, so serene,
Hark! The poet beacons me at last,
‘Look here dear sir, you forgot to paint my glass!’
Neglectful I, not to include the wine,
A Chateau la Fete Rothschild should do just fine!
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