Clara

He has such giving ways, brings me Bollinger, on my birthday, what can we do alone, without the sense, to live out our time, wine pours down my face, it’s like a Christening, he slices the Angel cake, are we here or gone, without a stitch to spin, laugh at the unknown, sample the waste, our jellied lives crowned, when called upon to pray, we roll and pitch astern, like ships on the sea, will our trips atone, for the greatest of days, awash with slips, find it easy to celebrate, his beautiful spirit.