And What Would I Do, I Would Do.

And What Would I Do, I Would Do.

And should I shed a tear,

which I never think I would

given that being here is borderline good,

and, you know,

just alright, all things considered,

due to being delivered from approximate evil:

Well, always she breathes elbow near,

brings another just one more beer

then and now, misty moist Luisa, dearest

woman, far flung and nearest.

So, now and then we plan

in my head.

Not catch as catch can,

because she’s not that kind of man,

even if I sometimes am,

and, well, such things are haram

in any case.

Nor any sort of snog and chase

allowed in this place,

no kiss, cuddle or torture,

why, such things are just begging

for strict punishment

should you wish her on your knee

to run fingers through her hair,

or even over them:

well that’s plain wrong,

because she’s gone somewhere,

to sing soft melodic song,

of lashes long,

of yearnings strong,

of eyes so brown they’d melt her

like cheese into toast

 bubbles brown

then froths foaming swelter.

 Hostess smile sun burn their shoulders

of those sitting phonebound,

who smoulder in shame

silent stuck in sand, not truly here:

But, look up quick now

and rouse us,

for she brings rain that quenches,

washes, soaks and drenches,

pinches flesh, shakes us awake,

calling me back from memories raked

when or if the heart begins to ache.

Should I shed a tear.