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My Verse. I spend much time a writing of my verse, Some say," It is a blessing, Other's it is a curse." Words are tumbling around in my poor old head, I get no peace not even when lying in my bed. Words come, some stay, others I reject. Some rhyme beautifully some are suspect. Should I write of love? So tender and so sweet, Or should I give in to temptation and write about my feet. Then of course a powerful motive is the spring, I can tell of the birds and the way that they sing. I must not forget the autumn or its falling leaves, Busy Farmers folk bringing in the sheaves. I use an awful lot of paper not to mention ink. Sometimes the World goes by as in my thoughts I sink. I keep myself busy chasing all these words, Rounding them up like cattle in their lowing herds. Yes I spend much time a writing of my verse, I will stay the way I am for things could be much worse. An alcoholic or a person addicted to a drug, Or even, 'God forbid,' a gangster or just another thug. © Bernard Shaw [log in to unmask] http://members.chello.at/bernard.shaw/poetry.html http://www.postpoems.com/members/bern/