Clichés become clichés for a reason. Tell us about the time ‘a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush’ for you.
‘Fly away Peter, Fly away Paul’, I whispered
But my husband must not hear me whisper
He always says ‘You’re fading slowly from me like smoke… like a wisp’
He says it without looking at me because since they left, he only looks at his Wii
‘Fly away Peter, Fly away Paul’, I pondered.
And like a clown, my face I over-powdered,
As I cannot bear to see the face of the woman through whom their lives were plundered
Because she simply let them drown and float on the water like the fishes in a pond died
‘Fly away Peter, Fly away Paul’, I say to my dead sons
I will miss them for many a reason;
They were my unearthlinesses, my perfections, my moon, my stars and my sun
But they went within seconds and left me with a stun
So, ‘Come back Peter, Come back Paul’, I say to my budding bun
Because of you in my belly, now I weigh a ton
I will name you Peter Paul, all in one
But I will love you, and the dead I will shun
For now, with mourning, I’m done.