Joy so swiftly’s turned to sadness, now,

what heavy hearts for Liverpool, these days.

Along the Strand I’ve walked with dad,

he loved it there, up Water Street,

pints in pubs, their voices music to our ears,

real wit and wisdom, working folks’ true class:

they’ll never walk alone, those hearts of gold.

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Résumé / Michael Kwack

Love is, like art,

dull without passion.

Marriage is, like enterprise,

vain without fortune.

Home is, like a chair,

awkward without comfort.

Life is, like sleep,

hollow without a dream.

Death* is, like a letter,

absurd without a story.

  *Death means suicide.

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You lived by yourself and felt so dejected

as your dating requests were always rejected.

Sadness and shame is what you projected.

You got to the point where it all was accepted.

You lived by yourself and felt so dejected,

so went for a walk when fate intercepted.

A ‘Clover’ sign fell and letters defected.

Sometimes ‘love’ strikes when it isn’t expected.

     From my forthco...

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