Here he is at last
The real bohemian
An individual cast
As singular paean
The clothes my friend they are not new
The flowing coat the bat-eared collar
Speak of a leitmotif cursing through
The vagrant look, the bottom dollar
The hat is always just askance
in his pocket the poem half writ
the cultured droop of the moustache
the glinting eyes with passions lit
His lover awaits in freezing loft
But idealism keeps off the chill
Not time to heed the fruity cough
Art is bigger than being ill
So, this is my bohemian
Lovable non-conformist scion
We will give him pride of place
Admire his smiling chirpy face
Even from his vitrine case
He deserves his museum space
Awake. The wife gone to calm the fears of the burghers of Solihull. Advice by video. Take two aspirins and call me if your fears of shortage of loo paper do not improve
Hong Kong my special place to now decline so sad
Even Boris cannot lift my spirits. Jenner helps to boost morale with advice on tomatoes but Pithers blog does offer hope and history in my morning read.