Lost In Wine, ljóð frá 16. ágúst 2022.

Both are gone, the brides of year,

badly hurt and lonesome now.

Are they really free of fear?

furlough, tell me holy cow!

 

I knew I should have said that much,

but sunlight in a Covid dress?

Need I point out: Hell or hutch?

Heaven found in just a mess!

 

Twenty years with tools so fine,

told me all, I waved goodbye.

Still the love was lost in wine,

led to ruins, don't know why.

 

Small and pretty, smiling kind,

smote me still when that was gone.

Backwards all in bristly mind,

before what so good he's done.

 

Great love found I, masked and mild,

more than thought I could be still.

Was I only well beguiled?

Worth the time I gave her, mill.

 

Built with kindness, beer she gave,

before transformation, glass.

Never asked for nights or shave,

need it all so make a pass!

 

Two girls at a time he knew,

took the one he feared the least.

Further didn't feel it through,

found out that he chose the beast.

 

Feared the tall girl, tame the small,

took me for a magic ride.

Even that love at a fall,

ever could I doubt one's might?