Posted by: Chris Brew | January 31, 2017

Soap story (another sonnet)


“Young man, what have you brought for me to play?”
I do try to please her, for when she’s glad,
She has the eyes of the young Lady Day.
They could well have worked: I thought that they had:
The nymphs and swains of my pastoral lay.
But her old dark eyes are deep cleansing pools
And her Faerie liquid washes my whimsy away.
Be it so gentle, she won’t allow fools.
Or my inadequate half-formed notions
I know it of old, her reproving frown
The surface tensions come with the potions
My Muse, with cigar, and yellow satin gown
And the dark sweet voice of strong black coffee
Is like “Honey pie, you can’t soft soap me!”

(this one was deemed incomprehensible by some readers, but I like it)


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