Gin sling

There was an old lady from Lingfield

at a party who slipped and her gin spilled

all over her dress

much to her distress

and she wailed "What I need is a sling shield".

The girl at bar Savannah (with apologies to Antonio Carlos Jobim)

Tall and blonde and young and lovely

that girl at bar Savannah is dancing

and when she dances, the sight entrances the bar.

When she's there, she's such a mover

"she swings so cool and sways so easy"

that when she dances, she really lights up the bar.

"Oh . . . but I watch her so sadly."

How dare I tell her she's lovely ?

Oh . . . she will never care for me.

I'm such an old guy; she needs a young guy -

boyfriend then partner, husband then father.

Tall and blonde and young and lovely

the girl at bar Savannah is dancing

and when she dances, the sight entrances . . . me !

A marriage

Through the first decades your femaleness enthralled,

sexual intercourse the cherry on the cake.

In later years of course your freshness palled,

shared parenthood becoming the life we make

together and although coition has not stalled

urgency abates for both our comforts sake.

The last year we just clung together when cancer called.

Your death makes my life now no more than just a fake. 

Rolling in the deep

The water falling over the weir
has gouged a deep pool in the stream
where floating objects are often trapped
by the bubbling upswelling undertow.

A ball or apple sometimes bobs here
rolling forever it would seem
but a new-rain swollen current snaps
the invisible shackle. Then the flow

carries the freed captive nearer
the sea while the patient pool schemes
its next loth guest as the level laps
down to its usual low.

But today's new prisoner was quite bizarre -
a drowned adult hedgehog, legs and arms
spread stiffly akimbo like a star
rolling doll-like sideways tirelessly,
its distended belly flashing white
in a desperate pirouette of death
it could never achieve in life.

Though menstruation is a curse,
ejaculation might be worse
not just for all the grunts and groans,
clenching of teeth, orgasmic moans
but all the time that goes to waste
endeavouring to be un-chaste.
Like elephants men go through 'must'
when nothing matters except lust,
their only thought - they must have sex
which turns them into mental wrecks.
Testosterone destroys the brain
and renders young men quite insane
while older men who should know better
crumble before a well filled sweater.
At last when they achieve their end
and work it off, it does suspend
the tension for a time at least
and let the man succeed the beast.
Old age might be the only cure
but even that is not so sure.
Without some menopause for men
the sexual urge continues when
there's little chance to satisfy it
with love and all that's left is buy it
which makes one's eve undignified
coping with throbbings of noon-tide.

Are you so wise that love means nothing

to take it in your stride?

Or are these mountains only molehills,

is that what you would chide?

Still, in a land of molehills

mountain making earns some pride.

The end of life is life.

Life doesn't have a meaning but a purpose -

the continuation of a species.

The only end to life is extinction of a species.

If by 'meaning' you refer to purpose

then its purpose is its aim

which is its end.

So the end of life is life - more life.

Death is an unfortunate side effect.