Longhand

Silence and kitchen utensils.

Glad I'm not in the mills

Right before their meals.

Also not with the seals,

And not at the window sills.

Far away from the bills,

And the water that fills

The big river that fills

The streets when reporters take stills.

Know how it feels

To live in a time that kills,

But nobody steals,

And nobody squeals.

Like there's someone who wills

Them with skills,

Someone who kneels,

Even though he reels

Like he lives among eels,

And he doesn't have gills,

Or in a night of chills,

And he doesn't have wheels,

Nor does he have heels,

And never pills,

But maybe quills.

Although he conceals,

And he never reveals,

He still appeals

That we will be fine

And divine, to dine

With precious wine.

You will still be mine

On the sun's last shine,

On the day's line.

Straight as a tine,

Not curved like nine,

Nor sharp like a pine.

And I'll always be yours.

Forever, of course.

For as long as the Norse,

In shorthand and in Morse.

Life can't get any worse,

Whatever disaster or force,

Faster than a horse,

We'll always be one source.