Saturday, a priest amongst days.
These poor hands receive the descent of man,
My rightful share in an illegal age.
I am a writer, not a fighter,
Searching old stories hidden under rock,
Of how angels never made it underground,
Then embracing an eleven-o-clock break
To consider whiff-waff and dildrams.
Don’t ask me what I mean.
Instead, consider grandmother’s glass eye
And her three hours of secret history.
The nanny state made me. I intend to enjoy it.
Whiff-waffs and dildrams sound delightful. And writers are in constant battle with themselves. Haha! A lot being said here, Davy. Just adding my two cents to it. 🙂
It’s worth much more than that Terveen 😊 I think it is the daily battle that keeps us going. Thanks for taking time out to read and share your thoughts.