Lolling around at the bookstore — we’re homeless and sinners and priests
Rubbing the heads of the tombstones — here’s Dickens and Shelley and Keats
Drinking our coffee and smiling
Dead writers are pleasantly smug
(Like lions that lay by the fire — who haven’t a clue they’re a rug)
©
agw
Dumbing down and shoring up and sandbagging the borders
Shaking fists at protocol — yet following its orders
Cobra crawl, and learning curves, as low as we can limbo
Intelligence is money spent — like money out the window
Education, lacks the art, to hold on to its muses
The thrill is gone, automatons, have dampened all the fuses
A swarm of independence, is flying to its grave
All lacking souls in cadence, like zombies at a rave
We’re bats stuck in a cave, blue princess short a knave
We choose not to behave…
©
agw
Dear John, I hear you’re married — imagine my surprise!
Perhaps I shouldn’t have tarried, when sparks shot from your eyes
My father says I’m lucky (for now my fortune’s mine)
If I had loved your wicked ways — I would not have a dime…
The gambler in your fantasy, of whom you might well be
Is thick with sweet surrender, a kind I cannot see
Your cracking gun reminds me now, that all good things do swell
as blowfish when in danger, and beds stuffed down a well
Dear John, I know you’re happy, your working girl has quit —
her job and now she loves you — for life —
she’s yours — to wit…
©
agw
Amanda Greenleaf-Whelan 
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