Folk called him Gentleman Jim.
From the Tyburn Tree he'd swing.
Yes they spoke good of the highwayman
who from the Tyburn Tree would hang.
Of the man they spoke good
as they did the goblins of the wood
that foul tricks they'd not come play,
try to keep Jim and them at bay.
Now Jim was dead, his ghost would ride.
"His ghost is good," they lied and lied.
He paid no heed to what they'd say,
still his ghost would haunt the highway.
She is so very miserable.
So very miserable is she.
More miserable than Les Miserables
performed by a theatrical-company.
More miserable, find, than a song
miserably sung by Morrissey.
What's got into her bones is
she's not up there with the Joneses !
I am an Aquarian.
The girl was a Libran and librarian.
Off balance, though, Icarus I
(my sign being of the air),
I misjudged she the Scales, and her smile.
But did not plummit into despair.
Sure'll be reading at bedtime a good-while.