Blanchard Avenue

Each have their own, oh yes!
Make an unintelligent guess.
In Blanchard Avenue
There rests a man with love to you,
He reclines on a seat,
His Greek god look is made complete
Not with white, shouldered drape,
But wineskins, duvet purposed cape,
And bestial snoring.
Make him your own lifelong mooring.

Perhaps a second choice?
This one has a marvellous voice:
A blackbird’s cooling song.
His brash, crude lyrics always wrong;
Floating here as he flies
With wings of vanity and lies.
Do not fuss to tame him;
Compaint would come from missing whims,
And wants would rise both sides.
For sorrow there’s no best beside.

Again, again, a third.
One final try at love’s absurd
Matchmaking endeavour,
Which can’t be won alone – ever!
The power does not rest
In any mortal hand or chest
To fix the life or heart
Of one, or more, lowly upstarts,
So do you want a third?
Prayer would help if yours could be heard.

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