#38 (“A play on words I make. . .”)

 

                                    A play on words I make, a song in mind

                                    Not clearly heard in sound.  I say, “Is mak’

                                    Up hard to do, my Sweet’?”  Not when we kind

                                    To each–forsooth!  For you I make a cake!

                                    Then all is well with us again for sure.

                                    You easy are to live—a cake ye ask,

                                    No more!  Then I no more feel out on moor

                                    Like Bronte’s figure read as part her cast.

                                    The song, my dear, ‘tis “Break’ up hard to do?”

                                    No issue for the two of us—long since

                                    We knew we stay as twain—we love, not rue.

                                    ‘Tis easy to be as one; we are not dense!

                                                If clear o’r minds stay full in love so true;

                                                To make up full us twain is easy do.

 

11/23/2003

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