Can Tiddy write stuff that's poetical,
Not trivial, crude or heretical?
I'll give it a go...
Read on, then you'll know,
That question is still hypothetical.


There's nothing of which I am fonder,
First thing in the morning to wander,
On a fine summer day,
And my footsteps will stray
To the top of that meadow out yonder.

And there to see rose-fingered dawn,
Creep over the vicarage lawn...
She takes off her shirt,
Bra, panties and skirt,
And gambols around like a fawn.

| It seems once again I must fail,
| To tell you an innocent tale,
| Of pleasures bucolic.
| Free of sexual frolic
| Alas I'm a dirty old male.

To her garage she goes, there she's taking
Her little sports car, and it's making
A hell of a roar,
With her foot to the floor;
Then a squeal... Yes, that's right, Dawn is braking.

At this time of year, it's still night
At 6am, that's when a bright
Glow may be seen,
Through her window, if keen
Like me, to watch Dawn's early light.

Now Dawn wears a kaftan and beeds,
Communion with nature she needs.
Yes, with her brother Pip she's
A regular hippie...
The Dawn of a new age indeed.

There's worse still to come...

Now our local river, the Stour,
Here splits in its hydraulic power
Into two, named by color,
One lighter, one duller,
And here she'll spend many an hour.

In this delta Dawn stands in the storm
Of water, at where it is torn,
Into two, There she'll stand,
On the edge of the land,
'Cos the darker Stour's just before Dawn.

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Last updated: Sat, 30 Oct 1999.