The Lancashire Dead Good Poet's society have a weekly poetic theme. Hence the unusual subject matter.
How Many Apples
How many apples remain in the eyes
Of their lovers some years down the line?
We see that divorces have been on the rise
But don’t be misled by the extra goodbyes:
They’re simply less prone to live with the lies.
It’s still the same cores of decline.
How many apples a day must we eat
To keep our GPs from the door?
Now Granny Smith cannot remain in her seat
With house calls as rare as a rattlesnake’s feet,
She’s given up asking, she used to entreat:
So fruitless – less work for her jaw.
How many apples and pears do we climb
‘Til we finally lay down to rest?
With stair-lifts and bungalows now in their prime,
Less need to ascend, seek their beds, at the time
When the old and infirm hear that Westminster chime.
The fruit count should be re-assessed.
So how many apples? Where would we start,
Maintaining a count, ebb and flow?
With those from the orchard, their taste sweet and tart,
The rotten ones that decompose and depart?
Let’s give it a miss – knock over the cart.
It’s not a thing we need to know.