Gone Are The Days
Impossible to call a lamb a lambkin
or say eftsoons or spell you ladye.
My shining armour bleeds when it’s scratched;
I blow the nose that’s part of my visor.
When I go pricking o’er the plain
I say Eightpence please to the sad conductress.
The towering landscape you live in has printed
on its portcullis Bed and breakfast.
I don’t regret it. There are wildernesses
enough in Rose Street or the Grassmarket
where dragons’ breaths are methylated
and social workers trap the unwary.
So don’t expect me, lady with no e,
to look at a lamb and feel lambkin
or give me a down look because I bought
my greaves and cuisses at Marks and Spencers.
Pishtushery’s out. But oh, how my heart swells
to see you perched, perjink, on a bar stool.
And though epics are shrunk to epigrams, let me
buy you a love potion, a gin, a double.