fly away home,
Your house is on
Go sweet thing, take heed
Flutter your wings upon the breeze.
For this curse will haunt your years,
Your life will be all fires and tears.
But alas, at the very least,
Stop calling all your children Ann,
consider binning all those pans.
Listen carefully when in the fields of man,
when fires burn you’ll be glad you ran.
Fly now my sweet rose coloured bug,
and I thank you kindly for the moments hug,
Remember keep those darlings snug,
Wrapped up tight like a bug in a rug.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)