Lonnie
Hearing all those nostalgic poetic voices
Of your Dots and your Madges and Joyces
And Annies
Has inspired me to write my very own pome
About how much I love my old home
Of Lonnie
The old-time houses with their bucolic air
Put me in mind of that cane rocking chair
Of Granny’s
While the tendrils of fog and smoke drifting down
Hang like the coat of my old Afghoun
Named Bonnie
And while I’m suffused with a surfeit of similes
All that smoke curling out of the chimerlies
So many
Reminds me of nights round the old kitchen range
With the men smoking roll-ups telling stories so strange
And we all had a slap-up tea with some change
From a penny