I am sitting down reading to the drone of bees.
A copy of the TLS lies open on my knees.
We must get a frizzle on, my partner exclaims
Apropos of nothing then goes off again
To attend the roast, while I attend to the Times.
There’s a lost poem by Hardy which clumsily rhymes.
A frizzle or two? Whatever can she mean?
I scratch my head then read once again.
I take another sip of my beloved cab sav
While she takes a pee in the outdoor lav.
John Malone 