Get to Bole
I envy Bole. I doubt this happens often,
as other villages will count it middling.
Although some reaching hamlet might well aspire
to anything high above the hedges, spire.
Probably alone in my green eye today,
or any day or decade. She visited,
you see, and not with me, strolled to Dulcie Lane.
All the forces of the universe refrain:
“Seth, you must go to Bole, to see her walking.
Any mode of transport serves you well, my boy,
Any kind of motored-mat, steam powered soul,
whirring, doesn’t matter, get yourself to Bole.”
What’s there? Little. But that’s the winking worry.
She’s little too. A perfect match,
waiting there at Dulcie Lane, where nice girls giggle,
happy. And she may meet him, step and jiggle.
If you have any comments on this poem, Seth Crook would be
pleased to hear from you.