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.
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