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Emil Miller
09-29-2012, 10:33 AM
When wandering in Southern climes
I heard the sound of distant chimes
And hurried to from whence they came
To find a palace of great fame.
A clock was mounted in its walls
And marked with each and every chime
The history of England's prime

An ancient swain sat on a stile;
Upon his face he wore a smile,
'Oh tell me swain, what is this place?'
He shook his locks so hoary,
'Doest thou mean Sir you've never heard
This house so steeped in glory?'

'I've said as much, so what's it called
this edifice so stoutly walled.'
He condescended loudly, my ignorance to parry,
'Why Hampton Court's the name of course,
The home of good King Harry.

But if therein thou wouldst wander,
Thou must thru' those turnstiles go,
They that stand at entrance yonder
Collecting tithes from friend or foe.'

'Good swain of coin I have not any
But there's one thing I needs must know.'
'And what's that Sir', the swain replied.
'Why calleth one this palace so?'

He gave a smile before he said:
'It's all due to King Harry.
Who, returning from the tavern,
Didn't like to tarry.
One night when he was rather drunk,
Much drunker than he ought,
When going thru' the turnstiles
He got his hampton caught.
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Emil Miller
01-01-2013, 07:00 AM
A soulless stretch of searching
Wherein we shackled dwell
Along a road all lurching
To some forgotten hell
Words fracture phrases splinter
All fraught with problems set
Where in unending winter
We stumble with regret
Towards an unknown region
Wherein no light’s discerned
And aching hearts are legion
And glimmered hopes are spurned
But poets have no need to be
Unutterably glum
Churning out the gloom and doom
Whilst sitting on their bum
Ignore the lousy weather
To write with joy awash
And all agree together
To ditch lugubrious tosh.