Seven hundred and thirty days has changed me nine hundred and seven ways; I am infinitely better, but more myself, I am me and I but also himself, Nine hundred and seven ways are what you can change in seven hundred odd days. You can become a Pa, and buy a house, marry your bride and much other what else! I have been married for that many days, and I have changed in that many ways. Two hundred and sixty five is how many days that Mademoiselle F. has been alive; She is funny and bright, a silly mite, my infinite love for her gives me a fright! Papa, Dad, Poppa and Pa, I’ll take each appellation with pride mes amis. Two years from meeting Madame L., and look us now, look at we! The thing is, that our meeting and her birthday do coincide, per chance, Two so very wonderful things, on the same day, such reason to dance. And with a giggly head, full of fog, I will shuffle to bed, having watched this sunset with a bottle of Spanish, bolshy, red. I know she checks up on my Tumblr, and so I’ll leave this here, my ode to Ted Geisel, my poem to my love, and this life, painted upon an electronic easel.

Seven hundred and thirty days has changed me nine hundred and seven ways;
I am infinitely better, but more myself, I am me and I but also himself,
Nine hundred and seven ways are what you can change in seven hundred odd days.
You can become a Pa, and buy a house, marry your bride and much other what else!
I have been married for that many days, and I have changed in that many ways.
Two hundred and sixty five is how many days that Mademoiselle F. has been alive;
She is funny and bright, a silly mite, my infinite love for her gives me a fright!
Papa, Dad, Poppa and Pa, I’ll take each appellation with pride mes amis.
Two years from meeting Madame L., and look us now, look at we!
The thing is, that our meeting and her birthday do coincide, per chance,
Two so very wonderful things, on the same day, such reason to dance.
And with a giggly head, full of fog, I will shuffle to bed, having watched this sunset with a bottle of Spanish, bolshy, red.
I know she checks up on my Tumblr, and so I’ll leave this here, my ode to Ted Geisel, my poem to my love, and this life, painted upon an electronic easel.

Clive SomervilleComment