I’ll grant you that it’s not 18th century poetry, as was suggested here. It’s a bit of a stretch to call it poetry at all.
As usual, it’s just whatever comes out of my head that requires the least possible effort. My life’s work has been something of a celebration of laziness and, in the end, I’ve not got much to say.
Thanks go to Kate, anyway, for shaking me briefly out of my slumber.
An epistle I can whistle
I’m just talking to the street
I can hum it, I can strum it
I’m just walking to the beat
A letter to the editor
Hello. I’m doing well
I’ve got these words inside of me
I’ve got a tale to tell
I’m praying what I’m saying
Might make some sort of sense
Did you hear me say it yesterday?
Was it past or present tense?
I’m so mad. A little sad
I’m so normal I could cry
A little song. A singalong
One more verse before I die
I’m grinning at the sunshine
I’m barking at the moon
My little rhyme is keeping time
Though I’m singing out of tune
Hear me mumble as I stumble
Watch me mix a metaphor
You can look. Please watch me cook
Because it’s you I’m cooking for
7 thoughts on “An Epistle You Can Whistle”
yea, so glad you shared it 🙂
hoping it’s not an epitaph …. you’ve got a few more years left pops!
I suppose one never knows when one might be writing one’s own epitaph. It’s a thought that should encourage me to try harder.
I love it!!🌠
Good grief! You’re not on death’s door!! 😀 I mean, maybe if you were a nonagenarian… which you AREN’T!! 😛 Great poem!!
Maybe not actually at the door just yet. But I’m in the hallway.
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Oh my gosh!! You are NOT!! 😮 Gracious goodness. What to do with you?!
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