K. Morris's Blog, page 257

Art May Dress An Ugly Thing In Clothes Of Beauty

Art may dress an ugly thing

In clothes of beauty

And make it sing

The sweetest song.

Is the artist’s duty

To truth and beauty?

Hate and lust

Are strong

The artist’s mind

Is full of thoughts of mortal dust,

And the reputation he will leave behind.

But some still choose truth

Though their roof

Cave in,

Under the weight, of their own sin.

Moral Miss Coral

A young lady named Miss Coral

Is so extremely stern and moral.

A girl called Ria

Swings from my chandelier.

But I can’t afford Miss Coral.

Flair

My friend whose name is Flair

Has enjoyed many a sordid affair.

The great philosophy professor

Owns a welsh dresser.

And I’ve seen Flair dancing there.

—

A young lady whose name is Flair

Has indulged in many a sordid affair.

The daughter of archbishop Kipper

Is employed as a stripper.

And her stage name, it is Flair!

When A Young Lady Eating Bananas

When a young lady eating bananas

Said, “do you sell see-through pyjamas?”.

A shop assistant named Paul

Pointed to the opposite wall.

But she couldn’t see any pyjamas!

I Am A Man

I am a man

And have respect

For women.

Yet a high-heel shoe

And a smooth, perfect

Leg

Turns my thoughts to sinning

And to bed.

I find

That an empty mind

Does not attract.

But a giggle.

A wriggle

And a vacuous smile,

May distract

For a while.

Secretive Giggles

Secretive giggles.

Young women’s wriggles.

A moment of pleasure

In hot weather.

A Young Lady Wearing Just Pink Socks

A young lady wearing just pink socks

Said, “my behaviour it so frequently shocks.

I can hear the knocking

Of the Lord Bishop Hocking.

I wonder will he like my socks?”.

When A Young Lady Waving A Rifle

When a young lady waving a rifle

Said, “I hope you like my trifle”.

I said, “it’s very good,

But, I was wondering could,

You please stop waving around that rifle!”.

Tomorrow

We may

Never see tomorrow.

For each moment we borrow.

And tomorrow’s sun

Must become,

Today.

There Once Was A Poet Named Lyme

There once was a poet named Lyme

Who composed poems about nothing but time.

Whilst drinking one day,

The sky turned grey.

And the great publican, he called time.