Wednesday, June 30, 2010

The Choice

'Hassle, wealth, inject.'

I find that it's a hassle, trying to pay my way,
Sorting out my finances day after day after day!
Some people have a way with money, everything turns to gold,
Others end up on a pension when, finally, they grow old.
I'd love to have the ability to bet on the horse that wins
To choose the right investments, the silvers, the coppers, tins!
I wish I'd been the sort of child who traded conkers at school
And then went on to do great things, never taken for a fool.
What if I could sell my soul for financial expertise,
Trade-in some other benefit for luck with commodities?
If I could say to a doctor 'Inject me, if you can,
With some special little hormone that makes me a wealthy man!'
Would he reply ' I'll do it if this is what you choose,
But you must realise you'll gain very much less than you lose!
What if I tell you you will swap a lifetime of good health
For this, your chosen attribute, the ability to earn great wealth?'
I'd choose what I have already above what I just desire,
Great wealth is high on on my list I know
But good health is even higher.



(An Acrostic)

Wonder is at the heart of worship; mankind, filled with awe,
Offering complete devotion to One Without a Flaw.
Religious people worship Gods, of many different kinds;
Some others worship Money; it occupies their minds.
Hero-worship, too, exists; sometimes without good reason.
If one should speak against a Hero it's considered treason!
Perhaps the most insidious form of worship is just this......
Worship of Self ! That's something that I hope we all dismiss!



I'm rather narrow-minded, in a way.
When sex comes on the screen I look away.
I think my attitude,
That of an ageing prude,
Is due to the morals of an earlier day.
There was a certain gentleman named Hays,
Who felt it infra-dig to sit and gaze
At skin that was exposed
By lovely girls who posed,
Expressing sex in many different ways
The 'Hays Code' was a rule that was in force,
To censor any 'liberties' or 'sauce'.
Nothing 'naughty' could be seen
Up there on the silver screen.
So I grew up inhibited, of course!
A married couple never shared a bed!
'Twin beds must be in evidence' it said!
There was a great divide,
Twenty-seven inches wide (!)
Between a husband and the girl he wed!
These rules held sway for nearly thirty years.
Our morals were protected, it appears.
I grew up thinking nudity
Was a very nasty crudity.....
Along with many others of my peers!
Of course, we overcame our shame in time
And stopped thinking of 'amour' in terms of crime
But when sex is on TV
I keep gazing at my knee,
Missing some scenes that may be quite sublime!
I think back to those days of censored sex
And I think of films that now are rated 'X'.
Are we better, are we worse?
Is censorship a curse?
Is Censorshop a thing that helps or wrecks?
"The Hays Code prohibited nudity, suggestive dances, and the ridicule of religion. It forbade the depiction of illegal drug use, venereal disease, childbirth, and profanity. The language section banned dozens of "offensive" words and phrases, leading to the shocked outcry from many moviegoers when the film Gone with the Wind included the word "damn." Criminal activity could not be depicted on film in a way that led viewers to sympathize with criminals. Murder scenes had to filmed in a way that would discourage imitations in real life, and brutal killings could not be shown in detail. The sanctity of marriage and the home had to be upheld. Adultery and illicit sex, although recognized as sometimes necessary to the plot, could not be explicit or justified and were not supposed to be presented as an attractive option. "


I won't stand for it!' I said to Rose.
(She sat there in a submissive pose.)
'I've introduced you to suitable men!
My God! There must have been nine or ten!
Arthur Biggs! You left him in the lurch
And he'll go far when he enters the Church.
If you'd married Fred Simpson you'd have been rich!
Serves you right if you end up without a stitch!
And what of Clive Smith! You'd have had it made!
He's filthy rich though he is in Trade.
Yet still you insist you must marry for love!
I don't know what you're thinking of!
Your Mother must try to make you see sense!
But I feel she's just sitting on the fence!
Do you think we married with stars in our eyes!
Too much romance is far from wise!
Your Peter, the sailor, has nothing behind him!
I don't know how you managed to find him!'
'But Father......' (The silly girl then spoke up
And I saw a tear fall into her cup.)
'Hear me out!' I bellowed; 'Your Mother and I
Demand you see sense! No need to cry!
Your Mother's had a wonderful marriage!
Servants! Lackeys! A horse and carriage!
I've been faithful ; I've never strayed;
All I ask is that I'm obeyed!
A perfect marriage! And what's more.......'
Just then Clara came in through the door.
Clara, so much more than a maid!
Clara! Pretending to be staid!
She caught my eye and I looked away.
There wasn't much more that I could say.



We believe in self-expression; we don't like to toe the line.
We think that 'letting it all hang out' is absolutely fine.
Auntie Prue likes orange; that's her room on the right.
I'm in the pink room opposite; orange is terribly bright.
Grandad wanted a porthole; he used to sail the seas.
While Bob demanded a balcony, so he could feel the breeze.
See the blue square on the left; that's Binky's room up there;
She is rather conservative and we call her a 'square'.
You'll see some greys and blacks and browns; they belong to various Aunts.
(Aunt Muriel's balcony could be improved by a few bright flowering plants!)
I agree, the fence is wobbly, but that shows our attitude.
Different sizes, different shapes. Some may call it crude.
They're demolishing us tomorrow! The City Fathers say
That we live in an eye-sore and we have had our day!
But, for one brief shining moment, we lived all bright and free.
We showed what a house can look like when the inmates can't agree!


A kookaburra likes to laugh
At everything he sees,
But, mostly, at the kangaroo,
For he has such funny knees!
His front legs are just hanging there
You'd almost say that they were spare,
And yet he doesn't turn a hair
At comments such as these.

His back legs are grotesquely long,
Like two legs joined in one!
They're made of muscle, very strong
For bounding in the sun.
And he enjoys a favourite trick,
Giving an enemy a kick,
Not a good enemy to pick!
A fight would not be fun.

So kookaburra laughs all day
As kookaburras do.
He makes rude comments in this way
And most of them are true.
But he only mocks from on a fence.
A kookaburra isn't dense.
He knows it makes a lot of sense
To laugh...... then fly away!

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

The Domain


Central Park, Hyde Park, parks worldwide........
Sydney has its Domain.
A refuge from the heat of summer,
Greened by refreshing rain.
A vast expanse of gardens
There by the Harbour side
A place to wander and wonder,
And the City of Sydney's pride.



A visit to the Opera House resulted in this shot;
As soon as I espied them I 'clicked' them, on the spot!
Two posters of a similar hue displayed for all to see.
A godsend to a 'Ruby' blogging-lady such as me!
My eyes keep darting left and right, when goaded by a meme,
And these two posters seemed tailor-made for the 'Ruby Tuesday' theme.

Dying Ember



The sun is not yet burnished
With the colours of decline.
Sunset is some time away;
Leaway is left for shine.
And yet the power is fading,
As it sinks down in the west
Shadow turns to darkness,
Night thoughts turn to rest.
A flare of silvery clouds reflects
The hidden sun's array.
 Another day 'going up in smoke'!
The end of another day.


There was a time when rubies were the hall-marks of the rich,
When common folk could not aspire to own one,
When little girls like me had never seen a ruby stone;
We never thought that we'd be ever shown one.
The Bible mentioned rubies as the most desired of gems;
'Good wives' were 'rubies', so the Bible stated.
And no-one thought that anything so wonderfully rare
Could ever be, by human kind, created.
In those days fakes were frowned upon and treated with derision,
As they hung around the necklines of the poor.
And they looked so very glassy, and so vivid in their red
That people said 'Well! That's a fake for sure!'
But times have changed...... now we have 'bling' to brighten-up our days
And it's accepted by the high and low.
'Fakes' do not masquerade as something better than they are;
They simply shine and add a special glow.
I passed this local window with its red 'bling' on display
And I thought how very fortunate we are.
We can add a ruby lustre to our rather humdrum days.
Every one of us can be a bright red star!

The Drop!

I try to imagine Sky Diving,
But my mind wont cooperate!
I can picture the second before!
The perch!
On cliff
On roof
On mountain top.
I can experience
The shivering, grasping toes,
Not prepared
To leave terra firma!
I can visualise the view!
The spiralling emptiness!
The trees,
City streets
Laid out a million miles down!
I can imagine the
Hypnotic effect
Of Space.
The desire to be drawn down
Just because down is down!
I can live the terror!
'I'm mad!'
'What if this is the end?'
'I don't have to!'
'Someone stop me!'
I can even picture The Jump!
The sailing impossibility!
But the fall?
That I cannot imagine!
Are there thoughts?
Are there awarenesses?
Do I shout?
Am I disorientated?
Do I know up from down?
Does the ground grow closer?
Am I sane?
I cannot imagine
And I shall certainly
Never know !


She was driving through the countryside, a lovely luscious blonde,
Heading for the bright lights and the thrills that lay beyond.
In her zippy little sports car, she was well above the limit,
But her mood was so ecstatic that no thought of speed could dim it.
When, suddenly, a cop appeared and flagged our Blondie down.
She smiled at him seductively but all he did was frown.
'You're going way, way, way too fast! I fear you must be booked!'
'Oh Officer' she twinkled then, 'Can't it be overlooked?'
'Show me your licence, Madam!' ; the cop was quite severe!
' I can't do that' she giggled, 'For I haven't got it here!'
'You haven't got it here!' he yelled ' There will be hell to pay!'
''How can I have it,' she replied, 'When you took it yesterday?'

Monday, June 28, 2010

Life Swap?



Has my ego gone quite mad?
Is it crazy to be this glad?
Glad that I am me, no other;
Not even a copy of my Mother?
(She was always my ideal.....
Dimples, dark hair, curls! Unreal!)
The vision above was my idea
Of how I'd feel in my eightieth year!
Sad, and bitter, grey, depressed,
Arthritic, shaky and all the rest.
And all my life I nursed regret
About my status. I used to fret
Because I never hit the heights
On which, in my youth, I'd set my sights.
Compared to the 'winners', so successful,
My life was humdrum as well as stressful.
I felt that Mother, Teacher, Wife
Were not real 'trophies' in the game of life.
In old age I knew I'd brood
About my lack of fortitude,
About my wavering ambitions,
And lots of other drab conditions.
Yet, here I am, in my eightieth year,
Honestly thrilled that I am here!
My hobbies consume my every day.
My friends always 'come out to play',
My children and their children too
Are always fashioning something new.
I creak a bit, just on damp days,
And I have some geriatric ways,
But, on the whole, it's pretty good
To reach this point (never guessed I would!)
Those shining stars of my 'envy' years
Have had their share of grief and tears.
True, they enjoyed immense renown
But they are all on their way down!
I never had an UP and so
There's no DOWN for me to go!
Swap my life! No! I've got the best!
I'm head and shoulders above the rest!



Coiled like a snake in the sun,
Reflecting the brilliance.
Hot, hot to the hand!

Wotta Potta!

                       Grandson Harry


Look! We've gotta
Harry Potter!

(With apologies to the sensitive!)

No! They're not playing pool at all!
Theirs' is a very different ball!
They're ping-ponging while they swim!
Ping to her! And pong to him!
Blue, blue water; blue, blue game!
Hunky he-man! Dishy dame!
I don't think I'll hang round too long!
It's his turn to do a pong!

Blonde Bombshells

                                           Press photograph


They said 'Try going blonde'
When I was feeling down.
'Blondes' they said have much more fun
Than girls whose hair is brown'.
So I grabbed at the peroxide
And gave my hair a dose.
It wasn't the colour of ripened corn
But it was pretty close!
And lo and behold! I met him!
The one love of my life!
He, too, had hit the bottle
And now I am his wife!
We have a brown-haired daughter
And a little brown-haired son,
But when it's just the two of us
Boy! Do we have fun!

Otherwise known as a Mikado omelet.

An omelet is a healthy dish, it's light as any feather;
It's just the thing for a tasty snack when there is balmy weather.
But if something more substantial is called-for any time,
This rich and sinful omelet is quite wickedly sublime!
Beat eggs and milk and paprika, with seasoning, of course;
And the beating need not wear you out; you can use gentle force.
Heat oil in the frying-pan of course not over-fierce,
Pour in the mixture, remembering to take a fork and pierce.
Lower the heat. Allow the egg to form a well-cooked base;
This should take three minutes; it's quick, in any case.
Now comes the really sinful part, take dollops of cream cheese
And flop it across your omelet as thickly as you please.
Then lay sliced avocado across the omelet base,
But only half for, when you fold, it has to stay in place.
Roll over, briefly, omelet-wise, allowing the cheese to melt.
Isn't this the most delicious thing you've ever smelt?
Serve with hunks of crusty bread. You'll be filled with bravado!
For everyone will scream and shout......'We want more omacado!'

4 eggs ¼ cup milk 1 fresh avocado, sliced 4 tablespoons cream cheese
salt and pepper to taste 2 tablespoons vegetable oil Paprika


A little blue boy in a big blue pool!
Is the water a mite too cool?
Is the step the place to be
While you look out and face an enormous sea?
Are you being urged to swim!
Your expression's rather grim!
Are you just a bit too small
To face the enormity of it all?
Water will one day be quite thrilling
But, just for now, you seem unwilling.


A woman carrying a duck arrived to see the Vet.
She was crying very salty tears for Cuddles was her pet.
'Doctor! Doctor!' she wept and wailed ' Tell me it's not true!
Tell me that Cuddles isn't dead! I don't know what to do!'
The vet put on his stethoscope and placed it on the bird,
But not the slightest beating of a little heart was heard.
'I'm very sorry, Madam' he very gently said
'I'm afraid I have to tell you that your little duck is dead.'
At this the woman went berserk; she loudly cried 'Boo-hoo!'
Refusing to believe that the words he said were true.
She began to question, she began to plead
'Get me a second opinion! That is what I need!'
'Certainly, Madam, if you wish. I'll see what I can do.
Although my diagnosis is quite definitely true.'
He rang a bell, a handler came, with a Labrador on a lead.
The woman, I can tell you, was very surprised indeed!
She was even more astounded when the dog leaped on the table
And began to sniff her little duck as fast as it was able.
It sniffed the head, it sniffed the tail, it even sniffed the feet.
No sniffing in the whole wide world was ever so complete.
It clambered down  and sadly shook its head from side to side,
Indicating that the duck, had, very surely, died.
After the dog a cat came in and clambered on the bed.
The woman was so speechless that not a word was said!
Again the duck was sniffed and sniffed, and even gently licked!
The woman wondered, as you would, what sort of vet she'd picked.
The handler took the cat away, and then, as you'd expect,
The vet soon gave her his account. She hoped it was correct.
Amazed she saw that she'd been charged five thousand dollars plus!
The vet said 'Twenty dollars is all that comes to us.
But I gave you what you wanted; I did my very best;
The Lab report and Cat scan accounted for the rest!'

Sunday, June 27, 2010


Ochre is the colour of Australia,
The soil and the red, red heart.
It's the colour of its heat in the summer
And the colour of its native art.
It features in body-painting,
And in works of world renown.
It's that wonderful sun-soaked,
Rusty, golden, deeply satisfying brown.


The starting words are from 'Love You Too' by the Beatles.


Each day just goes so fast....
I turn around, it's past.
And isn't it a great disaster
That old age makes it go much faster!
Xmas now with Easter merges,
Waves of Time roll with great surges!
Birthdays pile up ceaselessly!
Branches grow on the Family Tree.
Of course the Beatles were quite young
When this original song was sung!
Like me, they couldn't imagine, clearly,
That time would gallop monthly, yearly!
It was just a useful phrase
To register the passing days.
Now they're all old , it seems to me,
They sing it in a minor key!
They realise that finite Time
Can't be contained in a simple rhyme!
'Stop! Stop!' we cry, 'Slow down! Slow down!
In minutes, hours and days we'll drown!'
Inexorable! That's the word
That makes we humans feel absurd.
Helplessly we're swept along
To where all used-up things belong.
The terrible, terrible speed increases
It ceases.

Trip Trap!

                                              Brenda Bryant


If I were a Billy Goat Gruff
I'd trip-trap on my way
Off to the other side,
To dine on a feast of hay.
But a wicked dwarf might catch me
And then I would be dead!
Remember the fairy story!
Beware of what's ahead!

Sepia, the colour of nostalgia,
Of old-times and dreaming in the shade.
It's the colour of oft-told stories
When parchment pages fade.
White is pure and dazzling,
Grey is rather depressed,
Black is melancholy,
But sepia is always best.
This doll has an air of history,
She poses as an antique.
Her cream dress seems Victorian.............
She was only made last week!

Saturday, June 26, 2010


Chris Jones of Flamblogger published this picture of a Californian Towhee called Peg Leg on his/her blog along with some other lovely nature shots.


Does a little bird know when it's lost a leg?
Could it be that it's unaware?
After all, it's as 'birdie' as birds can be
When it's flying along in the air.
Does it remember the awful day
When the thin little leg went 'Snap!'?
Does it have nightmares about the time
It endured such a dire mishap?
Do other birds look at the leg and wince,
And do they feel sympathy?
Do they take extra care as they hop about
Thnking 'That might happen to me!'
'Bird Brain' we say as we mock their minds,
But I think little birds are smart.
Could you remember last summer's nest
As a memory  deep in your heart?
Could you fly many miles over hill and sea,
Could you battle through torrents of rain?
Could you fly on and on to the chosen spot
And find it again and again?
No, birds are clever. That's why I ask
Is this little creature aware?
Does he even think, when he's feeling tired ,
'Life isn't very fair.'
And is he courageous, hopping about,
And singing a Springtime song,
When he's coping with disability
And it's hard to get along?
Or does he take it all in his stride
(A one-legged 'stride', I know),
And accept the deal that he's been dealt
Not just as a bitter blow,
But as something that's over and done with,
And find himself a wife,
And raise his little fledglings
And just get on with life?

What Will You See?




Imagine what may be inside!
I cannot although I tried.
A colourful cover might fascinate us!
The contents might just aggravate us!
'A Film Festival' is advertised.
So be prepared to be surprised!
Blue, blue lips and a golden eye!
I can't imagine! And I won't try!
Do I see a robot? Is that a bee?
A grey figure posing threateningly?
The festival may prove quite dull
Though on this cover there is a skull!
The films that are shown may be black and white;
The dramas unfolding boring, trite;
The actors may have no panache,
In fact the festival may be trash!
But this bold cover will coax us in
To see an old time 'Errol Flynn'
Or documentaries plainly boring
Not worthy of one more encoring.
The power of the advert we may discover.......
'Don't judge a festival by its cover!'



Chicken-talk but, oh dear me,
Is that a grain of truth I see?
If I drop my Blog into conversation,
Whatever may be my motivation,
A glassy look comes into the eyes
Of those I consider kind and wise!
They shuffle their feet and look away
And can't think of anything to say!
'Have you read it?' I say, all eager,
But their response is really meager!
If they, brusquely, answer 'No!'
I haven't anywhere to go!
'Sometimes' some mutter, all of a fluster,
With all the enthusiasm they can muster.
'Once or twice' may be the reply;
That means they've read me but wonder why!
'Not recently'; oh what a cop-out!
I'm talking to someone who's a drop-out!
'What's a Blog?'; an honest reaction,
But not one that gives me satisfaction!
One either Blogs or one does not;
Some people just don't care a jot,
While others think the human race
Resides up there in cyberspace!
I try to bite my tongue at times;
I will not mention RinklyRimes!
But then my very real fixation
Slips into my conversation!
I could kick myself for being rash,
So self-centred, smug and brash,
And I make-up my mind, with might and main.....
I'll never mention it again!
But...'Have you read my Blog yet?' Damn!
That's how very loose-lipped I am!
As to the other hen's riposte,
I'll simply say to her
'Get lost!'

By Any Other Name!



Good old Maxine! On top of the game!
She calls 'B.P' by it's proper name!
'British Petroleum' others say,
In quite a loud, censorious way,
Claiming the Brits are the ones at fault
And certainly bound to end in court.
Doubtless there's blame and the oil's a mess,
The ocean's suffering great distress,
But the Company's international now!
It's not some British Sacred Cow!
Almost half of the employees
Come from places 'overseas'
And the U.S. input is very large!
Some Americans are in charge!
So call it 'B.P', it's rightful name,
And let us all take a share of the blame!
Our greed for oil, our attitude,
Our careless approach to finding crude!
The whole disaster goes beyond
A squabble with cousins over The Pond!
Though I'm only half Pom, Maxine's got my vote
For the 'B.P.' title in her quote.


(From the Willow Pattern)

The story behind the famous scene is far too complicated
For a simple little verse to make quite clear.
Suffice to say two lovers were star-crossed, and never mated,
And they've been birds forever since, I fear.
On a hundred thousand teapots they have fluttered in the sky!
On saucers plates and vases they have soared.
Their wings have touched each others as in flight they've fluttered by,
Not united but close by the one adored.
And below we see a copy on a little modern tile,
Representing that great love that came to nought.
And we look at those two soaring birds and give a little smile
Giving unrequited love a passing thought.


Friday, June 25, 2010

A Zen Garden


Seeking relaxation? Then you
Need to find the perfect venue.
You will find the Japanese
Have the needed expertese.
Brushed sand evokes a peaceful mood
Where no bitter thoughts intrude.
Think of a garden; think of Zen
Far away from the noise of men.
Choose an area shaded, flat
Rather like an enormous mat;
Choose the very finest sand,
(Tell the merchant what is planned.)
Then take brushes, long and short
(Special brushes can be bought.)
Now to use imagination
Sweep and swirl a configuration.
Add some rocks at strategic places
Grouped or parted by several paces.
Of course, true Zen is complicated;
More spiritual than I have stated,
But you can fashion your own design,
Not like the Japanese (or mine).
Make sure a bench is placed just so
For you to sit and enjoy the show.
But be aware that the cat next door
May scuffle it up!
Then it's 'Zen' no more!

A true Zen Garden



If you were a disabled child
Wouldn't it drive you nearly wild
To see the able-bodied swinging,
Climbing. clambering, clutching, clinging?
Wouldn't you say 'Let's stay indoors.
It wont be fun at the park because
I'll just be stuck in this old chair
And none of the children seem to care.
I'll hear them laughing, hear them shouting,
And I know I'm bound to hate the outing
Because of the things that they can do,
And I know my dreams cannot come true.
I want to float, I want to fly!
I want to spring up to the sky!
I want to feel the air go swish!
I wish. I wish. I wish. I wish........'
This swing is not a work of art;
It's a clunky thing and not too smart.
But push a wheel-chair on to it
And see how safely it will fit.
Start to push and you will see
A magical look of ecstasy,
As a child, immobile as a rule,
Starts to laugh and play the fool!
Starts to crow with pure delight!
Starts to beg for greater height!
Starts to shout 'I'm flying! Flying!
I can move yet I'm not trying!'
And, like other girls and boys,
Squeals with a truly rapturous noise!
Swing High, Sweet Chariot! How it brings
The greatest gift! The gift of wings!

The Lookout


To see distant shores
He climbs, higher, ever higher.
His tree trunk is a swaying mast and he is set fair.



Though I admire the elegant moth
In the coffee art above,
I really hate the awful froth
That others seem to love!
Bubble-baths I also hate
(I'd rather have a shower)
The froth I cannot contemplate;
It really makes me cower!
When coffee-drinking is my aim
I want the rich brown brew!
That pallid stuff is rather lame
And cold and floppy too!
It lingers round my upper lip
And wetly hits my nose.
The lingering traces start to drip,
Unattractive, I suppose!
Likewise at bath-time it's the same
The bubbles grow all chilly,
The body-parts I dare not name
Start freezing, willy-nilly!
Give me clear water, deep and hot,
With a uniform immersion!
And coffee will not hit the spot
Unless it's the froth-less version!


Thursday, June 24, 2010

The Victim


feign, imply, virtue


Downcast eyes, hands folded neatly,
Looking docile, rather sweetly;
Seemingly the peak of virtue!
I am longing to convert you!
You! The maid in my father's house.
You! The quiet little mouse!
You feign such modesty my girl,
Yet I can see a wayward curl!
There's something else that you imply....
You dare not look me in the eye!
I realise you must feign 'meek';
Only when spoken to, you speak.
But I am, of course, my father's son!
I know all housemaids can be won!
Servant girls are for the taking!
Goodness! Do I see you shaking?
Come to my room! It needs some cleaning!
Ah! I see you get my meaning!



Nobody born in 1931
Ever knew that bouncing about was fun!
They'd bounce on the bed, but wouldn't go too high
In case their Mothers saw the feathers fly!
They hopped and jumped in puddles in the rain
Or jumped like jack-in-the-boxes, now and again.
But bouncing like a ball they never knew;
They never saw what trampolines could do!
We who were born in 1931
Missed out on a lot of trampolining fun.
Trampolining! Exercise and art!
Pity that I'm a bit too old to start!

Mango Madness



Seduced by a fruit!
Walking in the steps of 'Tom Jones'
(No! Not that one!)
I hardly knew him.
We met at a party;
We drank mango liqueur.
It was fiery and sweet
And it set the tone of my downfall!
We danced.
We drank more!
'How about we go in search of the real fruit'
He said.
Hand in hand
We wound our way
Through the dark, still, London streets.
Discussing mangoes.
How juicy they were,
How exotic,
How foreign,
How exciting,
How elemental,
How made for people like us.
By the time we found the fruit stall
Hidden away near the Underground station
Mangoes seemed like the food of the gods.
'Let's find somewhere to share this'
He said.
So we did.
And now he has gone
And a slice of mango is all that is left.
I was led astray by a fruit.........

An Acrostic
(Suggested by Acrostics Only)

Let it all hang out!
Absolutely scream!
Unleash a cheerful shout!
Gloom? That's not our theme!
Happiness is very catching.
Laugh and you'll find others matching!