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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 12:59:47 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 6122
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => English grey
[time] => 2002-11-03 04:00:00
[hometext] => Sorry Jenni, not what I had in mind when starting to reply to your poem but dark mood overtook.
[bodytext] => In the sweeping land of the family Bronte,
You find the the poor sole called Jonte, Who huddles away from sleet and rain, And dreams of golden beaches in Spain. You may picture Yorkshire of dales green, Picnics, walks, cycle rides, paint the scene, But I regret to inform that in practice so wrong, Grey, murky, dank, now that summer has gone. The city bright lights as the festive time nears, Leave me cold and lonely, full of hidden tears, This land is not for the like of me any more, It is a country so very rich, yet oh so poor. You need no boat to rescue, as I swim your way, I want to quit, find somewhere to relax each day, As I now grow old, mind and hair grow gaunt, Jenni, let me find warmth close to your haunt. Pathetic, I feel so old and useless here, a no one, I offer nothing, no one cares, zero total sum, You see, what years I now have left in hand, Should be spent in a foreign and warm land. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 156 [topic] => 21 [informant] => jonteD [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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