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You ask again, I'm feeling even worse,
again the morning mail has brought more bills,
their influence on mind I find perverse
while work falls kind of outside all my skills.
The sinews stiffen, blood once warm soon chills,
with checkbook cancelled, debts the soul submerse,
one cannot bless these monetary ills,
and therefore compensate with this poor verse.
The times are bleak, I cannot reimburse,
the bank foreclosure cries, with fear instills.
The world’s a stage but aptly who’d rehearse,
though roles are many, all the bitter pills
to swallow when one’s pale about the gills
and grievance nurse from cradle to the hearse
as what is given, - Time takes back and kills –
which we anticipate in further verse.
In days of old when bard could gold disburse,
and magic casements oped on sunny rills,
the happy mind could roam with ample purse,
and feathered nest. ... The flight of fancy fills
a further page for sharpening Life’s quills
before to earth it tumbles with a curse
ere butter melts in mouth, before milk spills.
ENVOI
Time smiles, the sickle rises, then it kills.
The scene, once acted out, none may reverse.
The world spins onwards, careless of Man’s wills, -
I cannot find the will to write more verse!
© Jonathan Robin Poem written 8 December 1991 Parody Author Unknown – Ballade of Ultimate Necessity
Ballade of Ultimate Necessity
You ask me how I am? Not better – worse,
The morning mail has brought a lot of bills,
The messages they bear are brief but terse,
I feel a little queer about the gills.
I’m feverish or else I have the chills,
I’ve lost my checkbook and mislaid my purse;
and yet I bless these monetary ills.
I think I’ll have to write a little verse.
The times are bleak and bad, as who should curse.
The papers plugged with murder, prods and grills,
The world’s a stage! – we act but can’t rehearse,
And is their sweetness in a jug of dills?
We gulp the daily dose of bitter pills
And multiply the grouches we would nurse.
O mountain-makers – take your moles and hills!
In days of old when I called Circe Cerse,
And magic casements had no dusty sills,
The happy mind was easy to imburse,
I flew on feathers then, and no on queills.
But those were ancient days of Jacks and Jills,
And far from fly now its all submerse,
The empire that I meant to sway... the thrills.
ENVOI
Sprints with the Reaper till at last he kills,
the sudden silly thoughts as strange as erse,
the fatal hope of being named in wills, -
I think I’ll have to write a little verse.
Author Unknown
Jonathan ROBIN
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