ODE TO THE SUN

Gerry, I am sitting on a three legged stool beside the midden. Marcel Proust, is lying-suppline over my knee and John Paul Sarte is stretched out at my feet. The Son is so hot, I am feard my gooseberry green simment goes on fire. I look at the haze of heat rising from the sizzling midden. What a site a midden is on a hot day. It would have given Proust and Sarte gaiety de tour and a raison de-etra. There is the sent of lilics, honeysuckle and slurry in the air. I am intoxicated. Bluttered by the beauty of Summer. I feel the muse rise up in me like molten lave. I can knot resist. The muse wool knot be kept down. I--LEAP! too my feet, kicking over the three legged stool, throw my slender arms in the air and proclaim in kuman speech the indescribable, the undescribable beauty of-

SUMMER.

OH SUMMER HOW I DO LOVE YOU

THE MIDDAY HEAT, THE MORNING DEW

THE SWEAT IS RUNNING IN SECRET PLACES

THAT NEVER HAVE SEEN AULD MEN'S FACES.

MY OXTERS (BOTH) ARE JUST FAIR SQUELCHING

ALL THAT SALAD, CAUSES BELCHING

MY DRAWERS ARE CLINGING TO MY HIPS

AT THE IRON BRUE, I TAKE SOME SIPS.

OH GREAT BIG ORB UP IN THE SKY

YOU BURNED MY SON AND MADE HIM CRY

HE'S LYING UNDERNEATH YON THREE

STRETCHED OUT LIKE A RAPAR'EE.

MY BISOMS FROM YOU I CONCEAL

IF THEY GOT BURNED, THEY MAY NOT HEAL

AND I'D BE KNOWN BY THE CLOUGHER WITS

AS ROSIE WITH THE SCALDED----

(LEAVE THAT WORD OUT GERRY, THE WEE WAINS ARE ON HOLLYDAY)

FROM EARLY MORN TILL LATE AT NIGHT

YOU SCALD US WITH YOUR BURNING LIGHT

AND LIGHT SKINNED FOLK, THEY ARE SUCH NINNIES

THEY WANT TO LOOK LIKE -PICK-A-NINNIES.

I CHANGE MY DRAWERS THREE TIMES A DAY

TO KEEP THE AULD BO AWAY

YOUR SEARING HEAT LEFT NOT ONE HAIR

ON MY PROTRUDING-DERRIERE.

BUT SHINE ON GRATE BIG BLAZING SUN

UNTIL LIKE STEAK, WE ARE WELL DONE

EVERY HUMAN HEART IS ACHING

TO END UP JUST LIKE CRISPY BACON.

Gerry, my advice too you and the wee boy is, stay in the shed, don't leave the shed 'till the son goes down.

from a scalded, Rosie Ryan xxx