Post by justfred on Mar 23, 2012 10:20:51 GMT
It has been so long since my Elisabeth passed,
more than I can remember,
probably. Although I can be sure.
To be honest though,
sometimes I don't even know
what I did yesterday.
Other days I think there is an Asian man hiding
in my wardrobe.
I am worried he might be
a homosexualist
or a carpet slipper thief.
And I didn't get my breakfast today,
again, what a surprise.
Those African nurses are eating it
I am bloody sure of it.
My Elisabeth was a gentle soul
and she is the only woman I have ever loved
even though she could be trying at times.
I remember once she bit someone
from the Social Security
when they tried to help her up
off the floor after one of her attacks.
She thought he was trying to feel her up
below the waist.
When I say the nurse who is stealing my breakfast
is African I might be mistaken.
I can't be sure, she could be Romanian.
My years have advanced so much
like a never-ending stream of time
and I fear I am slowly losing my mind
in this so-called Nursing Home,
more like a concentration camp
if you ask me, what with those
Bulgarian and Asian nurses.
I am anxious that one day I shall wake up
and not remember all the good things
about my years with Elisabeth
which I have tried to cling onto for so many years
in spite of the carpet slipper
and breakfast thieves here.
I fancy a nice piece of salmon for lunch
But it will be fish fingers once more this Friday.
Don't these people know fishes
don't have fingers, but flippers?
I want to die but I am scared to die yet
because I think I have lost my faith in Jesus.
I know my Elizabeth will have gone to heaven
in spite of biting that Health Worker
who goosed her and I really can't stand
the thought of dying and not ever seeing her again
as I fancy a bit of the other.
I think I can hear someone in the next ward
singing obscene songs in a wavering voice.
I wish he would teach me the words,
but I might forget them again.
Where in God's name is my lunch?
And who has got my slippers?
How many times must I ask?
It's only writing my poems
which keeps me sane.
I can't believe the selection of confectionery
in the hospital sweet shop.
No bulls eyes or gobstoppers.
And I am still annoyed about that Asian
hiding in my cupboard.
more than I can remember,
probably. Although I can be sure.
To be honest though,
sometimes I don't even know
what I did yesterday.
Other days I think there is an Asian man hiding
in my wardrobe.
I am worried he might be
a homosexualist
or a carpet slipper thief.
And I didn't get my breakfast today,
again, what a surprise.
Those African nurses are eating it
I am bloody sure of it.
My Elisabeth was a gentle soul
and she is the only woman I have ever loved
even though she could be trying at times.
I remember once she bit someone
from the Social Security
when they tried to help her up
off the floor after one of her attacks.
She thought he was trying to feel her up
below the waist.
When I say the nurse who is stealing my breakfast
is African I might be mistaken.
I can't be sure, she could be Romanian.
My years have advanced so much
like a never-ending stream of time
and I fear I am slowly losing my mind
in this so-called Nursing Home,
more like a concentration camp
if you ask me, what with those
Bulgarian and Asian nurses.
I am anxious that one day I shall wake up
and not remember all the good things
about my years with Elisabeth
which I have tried to cling onto for so many years
in spite of the carpet slipper
and breakfast thieves here.
I fancy a nice piece of salmon for lunch
But it will be fish fingers once more this Friday.
Don't these people know fishes
don't have fingers, but flippers?
I want to die but I am scared to die yet
because I think I have lost my faith in Jesus.
I know my Elizabeth will have gone to heaven
in spite of biting that Health Worker
who goosed her and I really can't stand
the thought of dying and not ever seeing her again
as I fancy a bit of the other.
I think I can hear someone in the next ward
singing obscene songs in a wavering voice.
I wish he would teach me the words,
but I might forget them again.
Where in God's name is my lunch?
And who has got my slippers?
How many times must I ask?
It's only writing my poems
which keeps me sane.
I can't believe the selection of confectionery
in the hospital sweet shop.
No bulls eyes or gobstoppers.
And I am still annoyed about that Asian
hiding in my cupboard.
