With a pocketful of stars
and a head full of cinnamon
I went to call on my love.
What is that in your pocket, she cried,
a gift of some sort
or are you just pleased to see me?
I offered her a star.
Alas, she said, they give me indigestion.
So I offered her a cinnamon stick instead.
It makes me sneeze, you little tease,
have you no orchids or diamonds
concealed about your person?
Eh? I expostulated. Had I known
you had a taste for weeds and rocks
I would have brought you a score.
True to my word I returned the next day
with a dozen freshly picked dandelions
and a handful of moderately sized pebbles
- but love is never predictable:
my irascible sweetheart would not
even let me past her door.
Take your stinking stalks and stones
and hie you quickly from my lintel.
I thought that even poets must have a
smattering of common sense
but you, it seems, have very little!
With a pocketful of stars
and a headful of cinnamon
I wander the cold northern wastes.
The stars, of course, keep me
adequately warm
and as for the cinnamon
- why, I have developed quite a taste!
