Mark Heathcote Poems
Poverty Is A Gift
Father, poverty is a gift
Ask any bird taking a rain bath.
Son, don't make's me laugh
There's nothing but rain
Poverty isn't a gift
There's nothing but pain.
So son fastens your reigns
Ride for them riches today
Don't live by wage's daily
Paid only once monthly
Father poverty is a gift.
Son nothing is ever enough,
Just ask your mum.
Hewn from the strata of galaxies demure!
Inured with witchcraft; heartbreakingly, pure.
The bride wears her wedding-dress like haute-couture
Dressed in her heavenly gown made by Channel or Dior!
Poised like a vision, sumptuously, dressed and veiled.
She; supernatural swan like sailed…
Stunningly, intoxicating; like a little creature divine!
She takes up her grooms arm whispers thou, shall be mine.