Some fine stuff *done* in rhyme

[s-a]

The sweet rhyming nurse and sir Sine Villain of France

(A combination in trine)

abc

The sinusitis’ evil curse
did never stop, but just got worse.
It bothered me with stings and stress
as pus bags, shaped as an abscess,
dug deep behind my charming nose.
It turned my poems into prose,
until one day I met the nurse
who was all nude under her dress.
I was just lucky, I suppose.

acb

I’ll make the story short and terse,
we met and started to converse;
while I enjoyed her varnished toes.
She caught me saying: "I propose
a surgery for your muck mess."
What could I do, I just said yes;
and there was I: lying traverse.
She bored my nose with a strange hose,
and stuffed its holes with a compress.

bac

She was so skilled, I must confess,
and skills like that sure do impress
me more than dead maids on a hearse.
Don’t take offence, I’m not perverse,
I just prefer skilled hands to blows.
Her kindness dose just made me doze
(It is a preference I guess):
I passed away, or "did" "immerse",
where a love addict always goes:

bca

The land of ease, without distress;
where angels sing in sweet caress;
where it’s okay to... hm... expose
your inner being’s fluid flows;
where souls converse in happy verse;
where there is gold for every purse...
God bless all women who profess
(but not the dudes who diagnose)
to rescue those that life might merce!

cab

When she was done (and they did close
the cavity behind my nose)
I felt so good and said: "My nurse,
allow me, please, to reimburse
your benevolence, not with less
than everything I might possess!"
I said these words in the repose
-- devoid of pain, released from curse --
when passed the surgical success.

cba

She smiled to me: "Don’t blow your nose;
until it heals. Bring me a rose!
This is..." -- a note -- "...My home address.
Don’t let it leak though to the press;
for they are always so adverse.
Come to my place and we’ll rehearse
a very special pleasing pose...
And don’t forget the doctor’s dress!"
It’s true, I swear! (It happened on October 20-th, 2003; I remember it as if it was yesterday!)
I’m not perverse.


© Sam Albaniensson, Oct. 21, 2003

[s-a]

A French styled ballad




Nubian Night

Calcutta, October 2003


That’s my lover’s body lotion:
a zest of strawberries and cream.
Her juices -- a sweet love potion --
a jungle rain in a wet dream.
The Nubian night with stars that gleam:
Her shiny eyes... Her soul perhaps?
A fervor rainbow color scheme
reflected on her golden caps.

A deference to devotion;
a homage to the just regime
of the most pleasant emotion
for the beloved I esteem.
Her voice: a still melodic theme;
an angel choir that won’t elapse:
the timbre of A Love Supreme
reflected on her golden caps.

There’s no devil of demotion.
There is no evil, no extreme.
Only love blaze in the ocean
with vessels -- lost in lust -- to bream
with words like flames and breaths like steam.
There are no compasses, no maps;
her bosom behind what might seem
reflected on her golden caps.

And so at last I start to scream
trapped in a pair of damp jock straps;
I burst in pain as a cum beam
reflected on her golden caps.
Her golden caps...


© Sam Albaniensson


C&C please!