Another task completed by my scribe slave.
By Elizabeth Swan onA Monologue for my Mistress, Elizabeth Swan [ with apologies to The Bard ] To whom should I complain? Did I tell this Who would believe me?" O narrow minds That see not the beauty in variety but heads, Daily Mail buried, do tut and scorn. To whom should I complain? No, but of what ought I complain? Of what in the sweet cut of her lash, the sharpness of her tongue is there for me to do but sing my joy? To kneel and kiss her pale lunar sweetness brings succour to my parched lips. Shackled and caged by her bring the freedom of a soaring lark, welcoming the joyous dawn. Yet he who claims a free life knows not the peace of belonging. Is blind to the honour of donated pain. In self credit of liberty has forsaken happiness. Shall I complain to my mistress? Nay just thanks twixt .the groans shall you hear. Elizabeth Swan’s scribe slave 2014