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Jilted Reminiscence
Where
sometimes those legs speaks,And moves to the door steps;
Retards backs with a clatter,
Some clatters still in this heart;
How things have changed,
Days with my cronies are diminutive;
Nights perennial and haunting,
Those melancholy strains are daunting,
Alas! Those thorny leaves,
Never did pinch;
For the flower it bore,
And the vagabond to the shore;
Swineherd the gardens you plough,
And the animals you reared;
Forsaken their destiny once more,
Blood – out of some pore.
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