A blank page, this isny right,in fact, it's bloody shite!The page should be filled wi' text,a curious mix ae Scottish and English,It's whit a speak and also write. My rhyming, there, jist fell oot,but quick as a flash, I'll right that wrongthen I'll sing a happy wee song.A song aboot rhymin' an' stuff,Scottish an' English, written by a wee scruff.Next line is the last,and with this, the poem is past.
Imagine a box. A non-descript box, just sitting on the ground. All around you, people are walking around this box, paying it no attention. But something about this particular box draws you in. It is almost like there is a force within that is grabbing hold of you, willing you to at the very least investigate this box. You draw near. Fear enters your heart. It’s an evil world we live in, and boxes are notorious for their p...
Your face at dawn, very subtle.Mesmerized, I watch and think! What senses, stimulate your blush?Why are your cheeks, such a rosy pink? Curious, are your thoughts sensual?Causing my eyes to well up and blink. Is it wind, blowing up your skirt?Soft breezes, tickling your fancy? wink! Perhaps, watching lovers canoodle?Maybe more? wink, wink!Your normal red, not, contrast with blue.Pinkish shades, looking beautiful on you.
