Phooey on sonnets 'bout flowers in spring!
Those moldy crotchets are trite and cliché.
There's nothing 'bout flowers that makes me sing,
Ne'er to my love a bouquet would I bring,
She isn't keen on that stuff anyway.
Here is a list of a few other things
She coyly suggests she'd prefer I bring:
A silver Rolls Royce, a Tiffany ring,
Deed to a villa or castle in Spain.
To do so I'd have to live on a string,
And debt is a very cumbersome thing.
She smirks in reply, "No gain without pain."
If one day my love's dear neck I should wring,
Sing Sing, I hear, can be lovely in spring.
I accuse
Bankers who compulsively their creditors lure
Bid them colossal loans and obscure
To erect fantasies and a castle in Spain forge
Later arise manacled with a dolor mortgage
Employees who secretly squeeze through
Evacuate their jobs unattended and eschew
Occupy hours galore in cafés gossiping
With prolonged queues jilted lingering
Doctors who diagnose organic diseases
Shirk fragile,grief-stricken souls
Administer drugs to accrue vulnerability
Burden their expenses and nurture insanity
Entrepreneurs who hatch gigantic edifices
Reap colossal sums of almighty dollars
Abjure to construct a hovel for the beggary
To harbor their rat-infested despondency
Yet could medication be of any use
To what a whole epoch has abused ?
Abdelwaheb Dhaou.
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