Uh-Oh, Poetry: A Well-Respected Me

To the tune of  "A Well Respected Man" by the Kinks


I’ve found a boy to be good to
I love him very much
If you knew him, you would too
He’s bright and sweet and such
I’ve made a home with him
With each paycheck earned & spent
We filled all the rooms therein
And we pay the bills and rent

And I’m all grown up
And I’m just fine
And I’m responsible
With my money and my time
A child who grew too tall
Made to work
And act appropriately

I have a steady job downtown
Filing papers in the State’s employ
Because it’s fairly well-known
There’s no pay in work you enjoy
So I repay my debts with interest
Earning money with every turning page
Seeing what will last the longest
My self-identity or my wage

And I’m all grown up
And I’m just fine
And I’m responsible
With my money and my time
A child who grew too tall
Made to work
And act appropriately

It’s a little life, I’m first to admit
But it’s well and cheaply made
Fame goes to those who don’t submit
But comfort for those who stayed
With no need to soar, I fledge my nest
Trying to balance the means and ends
I live for the things that I love best
Good stories and food and friends

And I’m all grown up
And I’m just fine
And I’m responsible
With my money and my time
A child who grew too tall
Made to work
And act appropriately

Uh-Oh, Poetry: A REAL Love Song

A little more vocabulary, a little less hyberbole. If anyone's musically inclined, I'd love a tune to put this to; alas, I am not musically-minded.

 

~ * ~

For you I would work all my adult life
In a job that’s not really “me”
Alarm clocks, traffic jams, office policy
For the wages to support one husband and wife

They talk about mountains and oceans
To try and express their love
How they’d go beyond and above
Fuelled by superlative emotions

But I’d do real things for you
The kind of things you actually need to do
To build real love

For you I would admit I was wrong
Even if I was still angry at you
I’d learn how to talk it through
So much harder than singing a song

For you I would truly change
Not superficially, but slowly and over time
Your interests would become mine
In loving you, my priorities would rearrange

They talk about mountains and oceans
To try and express their love
How they’d go beyond and above
Fuelled by superlative emotions

But I’d do real things for you
The kind of things you actually need to do
To build real love

For you I would grow up and grow old
Face all of life’s challenge and tragedy
At your side ‘til we’re wrinkled and crotchety
And I know every story you’ve ever told

They talk about mountains and oceans
To try and express their love
How they’d go beyond and above
Fuelled by superlative emotions

But I’d do real things for you
The kind of things you actually need to do
To build real love

Uh-Oh, Poetry: The Mill

Watch out, guys; sometimes there's poetry. There doesn't seem to be any way to stop it.

 

 

The Mill

 

The little seconds whir

The minutes tick, tick by

Then it strikes the hour

Once, twice, a dozen times

A dozen times again

With a heave, another day turns over

Whirring whispers tick, tick, tick

Strike, heave; sunrise once more

 

The little gears spin so the big wheels can turn

Heave, heave, days become a week

Rollercoaster creaking up to Wednesday’s apex

Coasting down to Friday’s big plunge

Living for the weekend

Creak, plunge; TGIF

Again and again and again

 

A month slots neatly into place

Beholden to the seasons

The very turning of the world

Their holidays strung like jewels along the line

All so very seasonal

The rituals walking you through your paces

Slot, slot, slot, turn; a season gone

Season’s greetings, everyone

 

A year thuds into line, and it’s an assembly line

It’s a mill, processing your life

The years come in ten-piece sets

Remember your early years fondly

For soon there will be more of them

Thud - once more, twice more, thrice more

Four more times, years stacked high and bundled

 

You grow older, and the early years include your thirties

Your forties, your fifties, any time when you didn’t ache

When you had your own joints

Your own teeth

Your world shrinks in size

The bed, the chair, the window

And in it there is only room for

Whirring seconds

Ticking minutes

And decades, the box sets of your life remembered

 

What was the grist, what was the chaff

Churned in that

whirring

ticking

striking

heaving

creaking

plunging

slotting

turning

thudding

mill?