Shakespeare in Love
To me my beauty you never shall be old,
Though Time shall scourge your fragile shield of flesh;
I balm those wounds as Time's cruel lash does scold,
And heal his welts, your loveliness refreshed;
For in my love are herbs of powers rare
Restoring as harsh Time does take away,
My eyes, your mirror, chastening your despair,
Reflecting forth you've aged not yet a day;
Take comfort then within this frame of youth:
You radiate impervious to decay;
Wise Men well know this immortal truth:
Time captures not true lovers in its sway;
Your beauty is the kindness of your soul,
And goodness ages not as Time unfolds.
poem by David McLansky
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Emily Dickinson's Birthday Present
Emily Dickinson's Birthday Present
Miss Dickinson, You are a pear
Prickly in my bed
You fight to hold the covers up
And hiss, 'We are not wed! '
Let me see at least one breast
And kiss its' purple grape
You stay my wrist with iron bands
And softly whisper, 'Rape! ';
This is not fair my prickly pear,
I want to see you nude!
You wrap the sheets and mummify
And tell me I am crude;
Have all your words and clever play
Been a scattering of seeds,
Oh I would plough your two locked legs,
Yet you won't do the deed.
With fiendish strength I guide your hand,
'Oh won't you hold my member? '
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poem by David McLansky
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Rock Me In Your Arms Asleep
Rock me in your arms asleep
As the life force from me seeps,
Cradle me as a child,
Soothe me with your purring smile;
Long I've reigned from boy to man,
I've lived my life as nature planned,
Along the way I've done some good,
I've split some logs and stacked some wood;
Now I lapse in my decline,
A feeble shadow of my prime,
Un-reconciled to coming death
As I labor for each breath;
Do not mistake this man of fears
For the man I was for years;
Reluctant on this grey-black shore
To resume the shade I was before;
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poem by David McLansky
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When I Consider How my Days were Spent
When I consider how my days were spent
My aimless drift in hapless, cluttered years
The foolish choices wherein my pride was rent
I the butt of mockery and sneers;
I who was a marvel in my youth
The basking object of a dawning praise,
Soon learned that fame inspires abuse,
That lesser souls will seek to block your way;
I who sought to live as independent,
To use my brain to best life's game of chance,
Was proved in court an ill-prepared defendant,
Misled by misperceptions of romance;
Yet in the days I sense I have remaining,
Although my sun is shadowed in the west,
I strain to make my final hours sustaining:
My ripened love a story of success.
poem by David McLansky
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Shakespeare to His Wife, Ann Hathaway
To my angry, shrewish bitter wife,
Who threw at me both pan and knife,
Who told me I was bound to fail
And end my life in debtor's jail;
How right I was to run, abscond,
From you of whom I was not fond;
You had me in your old maid's bed,
Your belly swelled, I had to wed;
What gratitude did I incur?
You answered me with every slur;
I ran away to London Town,
A poacher being chased by hounds,
And there learned to hold a horse,
And became an actor to your remorse;
After all these years and my brief stays,
My gold aroused no word of praise;
And now I'm sick and write my will,
My hand shakes so with ink and quill,
I leave to you my second bed
In remembrance that you wished me dead
poem by David McLansky
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Lyndsy Lohan Before the Judge (A Riff)
'Oh why do they always make a fuss,
Your honor I really didn't see that bus!
And I took that necklace on loan, on trust;
It disappeared between my, err, my bust.'
'I was really being mobbed, by fans,
It was all a whirl, you have to understand;
I‘m famous, did I disrupt your plans?
I'm sorry I was late to take the stand.'
'Do I really have to go to jail?
I hear they make you do your poop in pails.
Do you have a guard in there who'll do my nails?
Prison will make me miss the weekend sales! '
'Can't I do charity for the homeless poor?
I could go knocking, waving, smiling door to door;
They would love to see me being so adored;
Prison seems to me like such an awful bore.'
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poem by David McLansky
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Galatea (a riff)
What perfection in eye and cheek,
She shifts her body, I cannot speak,
Her back's soft light of muscled bone
That I would frame in marble stone;
What arrogance in handheld tool
That I could take what's learned in school
And reproduce her subtle beauty
Oh Pygmalion, you fail in duty.
With grace she moves to part the curtain,
In dusky light she stands uncertain
To check the time she has to pose,
What innocence denied of clothes.
Oh Artist here stands your Art
With breathing lips, a beating heart,
She turns to me, head over shoulder,
Complains to me, the room's grown colder.
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poem by David McLansky
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Did I Make the Maidens Blush
Did I make the maidens blush?
Discretion guides me and says, "Hush";
That I am still a man of lust
Time coyly chides me, "What's your rush? "
Speak not of what goes on in bed
That's a subject best left unsaid,
For in that place all truths revealed,
The naked heart can't be concealed;
That female asks what is your pleasure
The male responds with signs of measure;
The generous and kind of heart
Will laugh and play the mothers part,
And enjoy the naked look of him
And satisfy his every whim;
But should her heart be cold, constricted,
He will find himself restricted;
Certain regions out of bounds,
The sheets drawn up with hissing sounds;
Beneath her blanket squats a neurotic
Confused by what he calls erotic;
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poem by David McLansky
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