Dearie me, oh dearie me
how sensitive you are my dear
and yes, I'd known you formerly
to be strung a little high, mon chère -
but now I cannot so much as wink
lest you should think
that I imply
you appear to sport a lazy eye...

Dearie me, oh dearie me
in what a huff you seem to get
and yes, in times of old, you could
still make oneself quite so upset
but only after a sherry or three
on rainy nights in, quite naturally -
and now you will not have a drink
as you insist that I MUST think
you have a vice,
pour far too much,
(if only that were so!)
I love a lush
and their unbridled company
not the uptight
of a dear friend
I still call for
who always seems
ready for war.

What happened to the bright young thing,
from whom I might often cheat a smile -
what happened to the pleasant ring
of laughter, once in every while?
Now it's a case of foot in mouth,
and hurrying to leave your house
just as fast as I had come
to wherever might be hope of fun.
I apologise, to no avail -
you purse your lips,
your nostrils flail,
you churn your teeth,
and furrow brows,
I never get it right somehow -
so is it any wonder then,
that quite by force this last weekend
I gulped my glass
and set it back
got up and said: 'I shan't be back.'

Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown