At a quarter past seven, I must dash
For the Appleby’s expect me at eight
A flick of oil to my silver moustache
For Miss Emma-Jane I mustn’t be late
A brisk evening walk buffered by the west
And yesterday’s news flies across the street
As icy blasts cut through my Sunday best
Must hurry before the rain hits my feet
My frozen fingers thaw within her hand
As we sit and wait for the dinner gong
Her beautiful smile is at my command
My Emma-Jane the lyrics of my song
© JG Farmer 2018
Form: Quatrains
About the Jez of It 