Poetry

Sleazy Sod; Sunflower

Sleazy Sod                                                                                       

It is no pleasure looking for Sleazy Sod

An electrician—Sparky with a short rod

Will fix the light and while he’s there give the nod

Service wife, ladder stockings, strip knickers odd

Half-Latino, Jack the Lad, loose-wired cod

Sings loud on the job—does not need an ipod

Tattooed Italian imp on buttock—sports shod                   

Has one word, “This is hot.” “You have a hot bod”   

Can draw out “Ahhhs”, bedroom star—set up tripod 

No love, or relationship—find a kind god                       

Good with his tongue I agree with the well-trod              

Even booked back for his bum-steer cattle prod    

            So lovers, ladies, motorists, super-mod

            Best to steer clear of that low-down, Sleazy Sod

Sunflower                                                  

Come day, go day, longing for my Fun-day

Thinking of my golden girl through the week

She’s turning to light—a sunshiny cheek

Briskey work-day; shaving for my Sunday.              

I count heads on an afternoon Monday

The week is too long to see my own child                             

I watched as you ran with dress flying wild

Replaying your smile, lone in bed, done day.

Come out, come out, for holiday bun-day

I’ll borrow a car, bring flower-seed cake

Recite poems on the beach till morning wake

And you shake your gold dust on my “One day …”

            Wish I could keep you well, go day, come day

            Then my week would be yours—always Sunday

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