I sometimes worry that my poetry is just doggerel. When I get a dog in my retirement, I may name him Erroll (as in Flynn). Dogerrol. But I comfort myself that it must satisfy at least 5 requirements. 1. It must scan and rhyme (if intended) 2. The words must be smooth in mouth and mind (C. S. Lewis hated to type his manuscripts as it made it hard for him to 'hear' the sound of the words) 3. It must have something to say. 4. It must suggest something more. 5. The suggested more must be partly hidden.
With that in mind, here's today's doggerel:
PREMATURE THE BIRTH
Premature the birth begins,
Impossible, the day it seems,
Full - formed the face with shining eyes,
From each shop window, Santa beams.
September 25th the date,
Full three months to the day, the birth,
The term all new, still summer shines,
Unready yet is all the Earth.
And welcome, is He, so ahead?
And welcome, was He, in His day?
Unsure the greeting in the shops,
The seasoned finance, start to pay?
A card, balloon, a reindeer mug,
A light - up pen with cheery elf.
So buy it, wrap it, make it nice,
And think of what you want yourself.
We're never ready for His birth.
But over - ready for the day.
And we don't know when He arrives
The simple manger where He lay.
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