A broken line
My life,
in few,
I fall
in love
with you,
That's all.
Above
is nothing new.
It's half past five,
a steady rain,
My train,
is due.
It's really my season,
for no apparent reason,
I feel an omen of a treason,
nobody is on.
My face is shrunken,
and like a dummy Yankee,
I'm furiously drunken.
Danke.
It seems, I've got a kink,
so, looking for the missing link,
I think,
it's just the spring.
My life, my prison,
it has
no rhyme or reason,
nevertheless,
God bless
you with the same,
I never hang my head in shame,
and never
smear my name.
You know,
I have no control lever
to play my game,
this drunken brawl,
but I endeavour!
Forget.
I have no use for it,
you bet!
I'll never let
you be a bit
unhappy.
Your fire
is snappy,
so do as you think fit,
and I retire,
my line is scrappy.
I am fine.
"bread & wine"
is my general line,
and this wisdom I can
indicate by a sign.
But I sell only ten,
and you need only nine,
'tis just nothing, but story of mine.
I think
my spirits sink.
somehow,
it is a link
between
my thought and drink,
and now,
to save my skin,
I'll make my bow.
I measure
my wine,
but not in liters, not in pints,
- in pleasure,
in merry days and nights.
My broken line
is just a sure sign
- it's fine,
at half past nine,
when I am slightly tight
and writing at my leisure.
Heavy snow
brings me low,
can I drink this whisky raw?
Oh!
No!
I long for you,
but I am driven,
to things which are not good,
but given,
and your free choice,
a charming fiction,
is not an inner voice,
but a poetic diction,
don't break the mould,
this joke is old,
so goes the world.
sometimes you hate all people
for what the bad ones do,
it’s looking lame,
you like a tipple,
you are the same,
you too,
sometimes you love all people
for what the good ones do,
'tis funny game,
a water ripple,
in all but name,
it is too too...
Pregnant limericks [aabbccba]
YOU & ME
Your verse is great,
At any rate,
But it's a shame,
To write the same.
My rhyme is rough,
You call it “stuff”,
I bear the blame,
And shut the gate.
In your love net
My links are dead.
I've got your "Bye",
But tell me, why
Your switch is on?
It's not your zone.
Was it a lie
That I am dread?
My fate is cruel,
I have no fuel,
To start my jorney
To our tourney.
I am alone,
Drenched to the bone,
No one attorney
Will save our duel.
I'm a bit lame,
"Squint" is your name.
You talk a lot,
My rep is "What?",
We fit a rare
And charming pair.
Let's try a shot,
You will take aim.
Look, never, never,
Try to be clever.
Just keep in mind,
You must be kind,
You must be tender
As a, say... fender.
Yep, I can find,
The word forever!
I fall a prey
To birds sweet lay.
You also love
To coo, my dove.
But here I stop.
And your new mop,
It is above
Me, I'd say.
Don't try to fix
My desktop mix,
My papers set
Is well as yet,
I love my dust,
Don't touch my past,
Don't try to get
My box of bricks.
Just on the day
I am away,
You told me that
Your old fat cat
Is rather ill.
What is your will?
I smell a rat,
I cannot stay.
You have a gift,
Of the last shift.
You are polite,
Correct and tight.
To pluck a pigeon
Is your origin
To be all right
I must be swift.
A bit of fluff!
Your charming guff,
Is full of joy,
Which can destroy
My serious schemes,
Alas! It seems,
We cannot toy.
Your voice is gruff.
I fill the bill
My rate and skill
Is quite enough
To be your staff.
Nevertheless
A fool can guess,
My cake is dough,
You wish me ill.
For your sweet tooth,
The wine is smooth.
And as to mine,
It's not a wine.
Beyound debate.
It is too late,
At half past nine,
They close their booth.
I'd like to buy
Your crazy cry,
And to resell
It to the hell.
It is a gain,
To see again,
That you are well,
And even dry.
You never spice,
Your tasteless rice,
Your look is bold,
And rather cold.
You are a tyke,
You do a mike.
But still, I hold
You to be nice.
My game is over.
I lived in clover.
Now 'tis a time
To save a dime.
But I believe
You will forgive
A gawky rhyme
Of poor rover.
© Slava Meskhi