Thoughts like entries in a old maritime log;
They're kenneled on a shelf like a dog;
From a ship; dry docked in a bottle,
Within a remote hut; of daub and wattle,
In my mistakes, perhaps there were no lessons found worth learning;
My mind keeps them in a structure; that could so easily be set to burning
I have no desire; to become someone I don't understand
So many that were close to me; have let that foul demon, get the upper hand;
So good is the chance, my memories will be gone historically; without a trace;
Their discovery won't be fulfilled; until there's a ghost, standing in my place
A poet
Serenaded his love
By waterfall
An view
At the end
Of a mountain valley
Full of
Wattle blossom blooms
For he knew
That magic week
In spring
When the wattle blossom
Bloomed again
Filling a mountain valley
With perfume
And a poets heart
With love
Hope you know what a wattle is Miss Wattle
It's a fleshy, wrinkled, fold of skin
Hanging from the throats of chickens and turkeys
You're much prettier and much more trim
I don't see a wattle hanging down from your neck
If fact you have very gorgeous neck
Probably getting myself into a bit of hot water
Oh well, too late now, what the heck
I'm sure you know it's also an Australian shrub
From the genus Acacia family
Now aren't you glad you tuned in, my sweetie
See I know stuff, I'm not just silly
If there's anything else I can help you with my dear
Like Einstein's Theory of Relativity
Be sure to ask, I've got nothing but time
I'll try not to revert to Sillytivity
So you may want to reconsider your screen name
To something a little more charming
Like Sweet Cheeks or Great Bod or Honey Lips
Miss Wattle can be a little disarming
© Jack Ellison 2013
All in fun...