There sits, atop a cherry tree
a bird that badly needs to pee.
He's eaten cherries to his fill
and now is bloated, feeling ill.
Bird guts turn cherries into wine
for critics here, on Valentine.
And if the critics have the gout
the wine will drive the acid out.
I think that I shall never see
another fancy cherry tree.
Nor any bird, a cherry thief
who, bloated, aches for quick relief.
But the idea of cherry wine
gut-brewed just for my Valentine
is reminiscent of the gout
today is it, and I could shout!
I'm off now to the local shop
to get her present, a new mop.
well i'm going to buy my woman knee-pads, i want to protect her lovely knee's when she gets down to scrubbing and all that rubbing i dont want her complaining when i receive my valentines gift, that carpet is a great equalizer when it comes to knees but i must say Herbert i feel there is a double meaning in your poem have the critics been nice to you lately Warm regards AJS
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You old romantic, you! : -) G.