there in plymouth, where the land kisses the ocean,
there is a sun, a sun that never sets, a sun called Cass.
a sun that shines on the free spirits of the Waterfronts,
in thousands of meetings between two worlds,
where the sea and the sun fall in love,
under the rain of stars that fall from the sky for people like us,
for the ships that with sailing wounds find rest in your rays,
there under the Smeaton Tower,
you are the light of hope
for the promised land,
for the stairways to heaven,
towards dreams and stars,
to touch the sun that never sets.
in the small port of Barbican,
you are the spirit of the night
after every drink,
after every dance,
after every smile of people,
Shine your rays,
the real treasury of the Treasury Bar,
the sleeping beauty of a city,
without sunrise and sunset,
under a sun that never sets
a sun named Cass.
Your castle has a moat
to mark for the unawares
the point of danger,
the change of rule.
My fort has a juice box
Your castle has a drawbridge
to allow in only those
who pass the "Hark! Who goes"
test and cause the chains
to move.
My fort has peak roof
for peeking out
and, on occasion
for peeking in.
But only for the Lucky Few
and only in the Lucky Few
moments when all is well,
for a spell.
Your castle has
both balustrade and colonnade,
meurtrière 'n its parapets
for staving off the storms
and againststanding and
withstanding arméd swarms.
My fort has a
pair a pets:
this fluffster at my calf,
snoring and this stuffster
in crook of arm;
well-worn, with eye
missing but stuffed
animals see with squishy bits
inside, not these button eyes.
Your castle has barbican and portcullis.
My fort has a wittle wiccan. Jealous?
Your castle has both crenellation and machicolation.
My fort has an introvert's narration and ceaseless cogitation.
Your castle has walls of
stone, long-charred by dragon
breath. With dents by dint
of Minotaur and Harpy.
My fort is cotton batting,
linen for winnin'
battles with monsters
greater than your gods.
Benican said he could,
Jerrican was quite full,
Pellican catch a fish,
Jellican wobble in a dish,
Daisican grow a flower,
Wellican provide a shower,
Barbican cut your hair,
Terrican eat a pear,
Jonican throw a lance,
Cancan is an exciting dance,
Billican boil some tea,
Would you sit and have some with me,
..............can you?................
The hidden face
Love to a Swiss Army knife more akin
Dumbfounds the blind's ear and elates
Blasts a rocky,impregnable barbican
Yet torpedoes nests and sanctity flatulates.