Son, let your mouth strangle silence -
The silence that breeds pushovers
For profitless is the burden of a caged tongue
When spikes in thy bottom doth lodge.
Son, let not the bubbling discourses,
Of the raucous raconteurs
In cold blood, butcher your hardihood
For rhetoric is just but the flailing of the tongue.
And, Remember, O son, the ways of the wise;
That gold lies snug in potted jaws,
And a little chatter cocktailed in a little hush,
Make amity in the depths of humanity.
Clip-Pity Clop, Drip-Pity Drop
Clip-pity clop clip-pity clop
Pencil-toed I walk aloft
The pavements wet and glassy grey
Isolated lane for me to bestride
Bloomy flowers my umbrella atop
Spraying their heads at a riotous fair
The rainy waters like elves in sprite
Streaming down from the dark skies above
Slide down my floral domey roof
Encircling my every moving step
Like the brandished magical wand
To keep all evil at the farthermost bay
Puddles before me my mirrors be
Umbrella held high by cocktailed ring
The skirt a-swish in another hold
Two small leaps on stones for bridge
The helm a-safe did bring a pride
The cooing in the heart the sparkle in the eye
The rainy elves rounding the clippity heels
My heart walks in the rain drippity drop drppity drop
Balveen Cheema
August 23, 2015
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