The MissingA Poem by David Lewis PagetWhat will I miss the most, I thought, Now that she’s not around, I walked back slowly to the Port With my face turned to the ground, Would I miss the incessant chatter that Would drive St. Peter mad? Or sit with a sigh of pure relief At the absence of it… Sad! And what of the silly songs she sang When I often used to curse, Telling her that she’d got it wrong, Forgotten the second verse, For then she would just ignore me And go out and feed the birds, Singing the same old song again But making up the words. I’d ask her to wear the blue dress So she’d go and wear the green, The one that had such a diving top That her cleavage was obscene, She’d only do it to thwart we when We’d visit with my kin, Annoying my strait-laced mother, ‘How on earth do you keep them in?’ She was just the size of a hobbit, or A tiny little sprite, Would lie with her back towards me When we cuddled up at night, Those were the things that I would miss I thought, with just a tear, Why did she have to leave me at The turning of the year? Christmas never would be the same, She’d decorate the tree, Getting the lights a-blinking which Was more than they did for me, I entered the door at home, and listened, Nary a single sound, And never would be again, now she Was planted in the ground. David Lewis Paget
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10 Reviews Added on March 30, 2017 Last Updated on March 30, 2017 Tags: hobbit, perverse, words.dress Author
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