Moving the cat hairs.




You talked it up,
as a drunkard on a Saturday night,
we are doomed you fresh bread,
all this to much in the head.

My primary school headmaster,
a British major;
late of Berlin with a blonde wife,
warned his pupils of lace and fairs,
bells on her ankles,
free of all cares.

I pick the one sweet fruit,
from my childhood's Victorian peach tree,
charged the young thief three apples,
for crossing our garden.

So it will be back to the simple things,
away with white gold rings,
a kiss of forgiveness,
such a bless.

Learning of your neighbour,
knitting with old coloured wool,
we shall be poor freaks,
a shoe that squeaks.

Finding again,
that work does not make you free,
merry and company.

We wanted us all to be equally rich,
so they will make us equal in poverty,
picking damsons from the tree,
leaving the surplus for strangers.

~