A candlelit restaurant, where dine the elite
Securing a reservation, a near-impossible feat
My dream date and I, dressed to the nines
The views majestic, overlooking the Rhine
The décor exquisite, in the finest of taste
The service superb, orders prepared post-haste
But the cuisine so awful, my date gave me a glance
Darling, I confessed ~ I ordered the ambience
Ghostly Pink and her little dog Tutu
were at the Parisian Café at six after two
They were dressed to the nines which they often do
Rude people walked by asking them for a boo
Ghostly Pink did not give them any attention or reply
But they got a growl if they caught little Tutu’s eye
He does not like to perform for just any old guy.
He preferred people who ignored them as they walked by.
My boyfriend’s a physicist - he finds the universe interesting.
Imagine yourself in Paris, where ordinary evenings can feel cinematic. Maybe it’s the staging of the luminous moon, the warm, flattering glow of gas streetlights, the low architecture that accents the sky - or the wine but there’s a collusion that meshes with the city’s origin myth of romance.
Anyway, you’re dressed to the nines, wearing later-surprise underwear and he’s talking about ‘neural convolutional networks (AI).’
They recognize and filter nebular contamination (whatever THAT is).
Who knew?
You could fill a library with what I don’t know - apparently.
He’s so cute with his smartyness.
Don’t worry, this isn’t a tale of tragic passion.
A little expressive affection will bring him into my lusty orbit.
.
.
Songs for this:
I Can't Help Loving That Man by Björk
Inside and Out by Feist
Silhouettes know they’re loved, day and mostly nights;
When my ball sails the fence, I fetch—two blocks down
And when the dog walks the cat—dragged when she bites,
While ticketed, my name changed to a pronoun,
Love baseball, yet my golf ball, they can’t catch mines,
I’m in shorts and shirttails, she’s dressed to the nines,
She’s in the clubhouse, and I’m in the golf cart,
Begs I, she came; she’s there, I’m here, being smart.
Not a clock watcher, though, I’m told, “You’re still here?”
The wage is great, yet labor can be taxing
Staffed, forty years; polite—but can be austere
Wrote up some, watching union ranks relaxing
I hate writing up folks, or being strict, ugh!
Some tact, less frank, gets smiles, or a shoulder shrug
Double-shift, no-takers, no clock—“What’s with that?”
Worst, are those days, straight two days, I'm left at bat!
The Real Christmas
From Black Friday to Christmas Eve,
presents to purchase and wrap.
Office and family parties, visits to relatives
platters of food and gallons of alcohol.
Trees dressed to the nines in dangling baubles
and twinkling lights.
Continuous Christmas carols blaring from radios
and loud speakers.
Wreaths and decorations to adorn tables,
night stands, credenzas, book shelves.
Lights hung in strings so large that rows
of houses look like runways for planes.
Inflatable Santas, snowmen, reindeer and nutcrackers
compete for space in yards.
Nativities, pageants, plays special music
consume congregations.
Is this the real Christmas?
Or perhaps it is-
A silent night, two thousand years ago
in a dimly lit cave.
A babe wrapped in woolen clothes
lying in a sheep’s feeding trough.
Only shepherds and loving parents
in attendance.
An infant destined to change history.
The future savior of the world.
gorgeous kind-hearted empathetic
motivated lady godiva
usually dressed to the nines
taught her husband a lesson
showing off what he was missing
to the ones he referred to as commoners
They call it pancake ice.
Flipping our minds.
Imagine the river
as maple syrup.
Mama’s at the shore
in an old-fashioned apron,
smiling, waiting
to see if we feast
on all the pancakes.
That is when we know
it is Spring, and
I see her again
dressed to the nines.
I can reach out
and talk to her
and we can talk
of days gone by,
like when Dad cried
for months at a time.
He comes to her
in the pancake boat.
Dad says her lips
taste like maple syrup
…and forever.
Dressed to the nines
Each and every time
Style and charm
Smile, oh sooo warm
Eyes of piercing blue
Old things made brand new
Inside how I melt
And I haven't even felt
The softness of her skin
Or kissed under her chin
But I've thought about it, yes
Yet in words I don't express
Except in poetry
Where I tell all of me
Where all my thoughts are there
With only her I share
My name is not my own
She knows though, her alone
She also knows thereof
That behind it all is love
And yet desire's real
Beyond just how I feel
I don't know what's in store
But I do know I want more
In every way I see
Compatibility
To love her with such ease
I want for her to please
I know I'd know just how
I wish the time was now
What Sara sings is true
In all things, I Choose You
Themed distractions, affairs a boulevard,
as elbowed are divided from their minds.
Aloof, queues succeed a ship calling card,
as untrained get on, moons all exit signs.
The General Slocum, dressed to the nines
--churchgoers being passengers adorned.
Petite girls, bulky boots-dresses confines,
a spark burning as the captain is warned.
Crew-covered ears as the shrieking arose,
clung rails ... faith enables those disabled,
backing from charring ensue panic throes,
river rips donning death ... apt tests fatal.
Swimmers valueless o'er a thousand died.
Lifeboats? Vest hopeless; the firm denied.
Dilbert Digglewink, dangly spangly gentleman frog
Was heartily hopping all around the St Louis bog
Thinking he was all this and that, in his outfit dapper.
His toes and feet flopping around like an incensed flapper.
I watched him high and I watched him low.
He moved quickly and agile, he was never slow.
The lady frogs came and batted their eyes.
One with long lashes promised him a big surprise.
He left with one, and came back with two.
Dressed to the nines, he did a fine soft shoe.
Dilbert Digglewink, the most exciting bachelor around
Is doing a dance and a song; the big run-around!
Fat bellied man
It seems we have a
Miss
Under
Standing
What you huntin?
Nothin in here for you
The safe is bare
How dare
You
Not
Be aware
that
I was inclined
To go out and dine
Dressed to the nines
The corner fish fry was nice
just a bit of advic
I don’t do tartar
Only tar-tare
I thought you understood
The rules of this game
Those steam-sealed pockets
I don’t choose
to purposely inflame
But
Everything is a process
A test
Now was that really your best
Aside from clutching your leather so tight
If you had looked up from the pennies
You stowed away with that key
You would have recognized my grace
And would have known
There was no need to angst
The night was on me
The Luck of the Irish never fails,
Whether Belfast or the Dublin scene.
Their tried and true spirit prevails,
Dressed to the nines in emerald green.
Though past history seems so unfair,
When cursed by unforgiving rule.
Land and people fraught with despair,
And burdened by laws ever cruel.
Too many years they suffered the plight,
Till the day they severed the ties.
While rising tall for freedom's fight,
Cut their tormentors down to size.
Now one and all will surely agree,
Either standing or kneeling to pray.
Here's to an Ireland forever free,
So raise a glass on St. Patrick's Day.
Billows of a winter snow blowing through my curtain window
all I sweet remember is the way the willow tree smelled
that creamy, sugary, wintergreen scent of its lovely mellow
and the way the sun tilted each time you looked at me...
Snowflakes falling from a heavy laden sky of marble
and though my heart is longing, it is full of your song
that slow jazz music made us drunk as we danced
beneath the sultry moon, like a a fork and spoon
February shivers, my how the winter defuses
all that is left is the scent of a warmth remembered
healing hands, *** secret pillow talks
You grew old I grew old, then we both stopped living
My how I recall those winter snaps,
two young lovers lost in the silk of life's entwine
I remember when our love was fresh and new
like the weeping willow, dressed to the nines
Ah ! But those were different times and now is now,
I am presently lost, ... in this winter pow.
mr and mrs merlin meow the sixteenth were on the brink
of letting Kansas City High Society know what they think.
the star put their photo on the front page with a link.
each of them dressed to the nines, holding their favorite drink.
those two do not think that their prissy litter boxes stink!
sniffed their gardener, a put-upon python wearing bright pink.
look at her, she’s such a back-stabber, a gossip, a fink!
yelled his wife Priscilla, with a sassy sashay and a slippery slink.
The Fashion Show
I took pattern making autumns ago
I measured and cut a bodice to sew
A vintage cocktail dress trimmed with mojo
Louie Fifteen Courts would never forgo
I’m dressed to the nines and nowhere to go
Aha, of course, there’s a chic fashion show
It’s a full house, the theme: “Haute Escato”
Awed by the finale I yell bravo!
Home watching YouTube, with chips and merlot
Sub Categories
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