A drainpipe, a drain, and an old sock.

3 things that may not mean a lot

to you.

To me they do.

When the latter is connected to the former.

Nothing gets through.

My dads idea.

What a man.

Are you the one that plots and schemes?
knitting below the guillotine

Are you the one that hastens gloom?
by shielding sun and clouding moon

Are you the one that plots and schemes?
knitting below the guillotine.

Are you the siren with sleight of hand?
who wrecks young lives on rocky land.

Are you the one that plots and schemes?
knitting below the guillotine.

Are you the one with the underhand?
who  builds a promise on shifting sands.

Are you the one that plots and schemes?
knitting below the guillotine.

Are you the one on either side?
Devil's advocate, friend and guide.

let's cover heads with winter hats
and criss cross fields with winter tracks

be quick to  claim  this winter scape
the early bird new tracks will make

long before the last chimney smoke
The wind will craft a winter coat.

across this land a blanket bright.
concealing blemishes winter white.

as the sun appears to try its hand
at waking up this freezing land

the bitter chill will win this fight  
between bright  blue sky and coming night.

Blackbird, blackbird are you sad?
Has Magpie taken all you have.

Is your song a song of sorrow,
or a tune for a new tomorrow?

What to do with your empty nest?
Should you weep or warn the rest?

I think I know what you should say.

Magpie, magpie keep away.

Did you ever
a dandelion pick,
blow each seed
and make a wish.

Was that wish,
a wish for wealth
or was that wish
a wish for health?

Or was that wish
a wish to see,
a field of gold
in front of thee.

From the tallest mast to the tallest tree,
my words won't be seen from land or sea.

They won't strike fear into the bravest heart,
challenge the mind, or a discussion start.

But this ramshackle collection of word and rhyme,
has subtleties and candor within its design.

Its message is 3 fold, direct at your heart.
First, to the void that's left when we part.

Second, I dedicate to the tone of your skin.

Third to your returning hand and the feeling within.

Perched on my windowsill,
I can remember it still.

Sounds of lawns being mowed
and the great north road.

I wandered back then;
Where were they bound?

Why would they pass—
such a wonderful town.

Still, I look back and smile,
from where I am now.

All we knew back then—
was this Midlands Town.

The friendships we made;
the bridge where we played.

We would boast of the dens;
we built with our friends.

The dens have all gone,
and friends have moved on

to where they reside,
in towns far and wide.

But one thing that we share,
that nothing compares.

The sights and the sound,
of this Midlands Town.