Last Word

 

 

 

When arguing with a woman

Just remember this,

Last word goes to the lady

If you don’t wish to be dissed.

 

Last word wins the dispute

In the woman’s case,

Any talk after her last word

Will be an absolute waste.

 

I am talking from experience;

There are many in my life,

Don’t mind I am February born

I was not built for strife.

 

It does not matter the age,

Let her have the last word

For anything you say after this

Is treated as being absurd.

 

 

You cannot win an argument

With these special souls,

They identify a specific detail

While men see the whole.

 

For the ladies it is emotive

For the man it is about the fact

So, you can argue all day long

They will never see that.

 

The man will note the action

The lady sees the effect

So, it matters not what is brought

It will be a total reject.

 

We are wired differently:

That is, the woman and the man,

And I have absolutely no doubt

This was the Creator’s plan.

 

 

Have the argument if you must

But understand this, Mr. Man,

You will not win that argument

Try as much as you can.

 

Last word wins the argument,

Give it to the ladies, please.

Remember they are built for distance,

We are built for speed.

 

Stewart Russell © January 19, 2023

 

Insane

 

 

Five senses there were

Six, there are now,

Somewhere along the line

To this, the rest bowed.

 

Seeing is believing

That’s what I’ve been told,

Hearing brings doubt

Especially, if you are old.

 

Taste is acquired

I have proven that,

Smell doesn’t discriminate

That’s a proven fact.

 

Touching is exciting

But can be dangerous too,

If you are out of touch

Your senses are skewed.

 

It means you’re not seeing

Or hearing well,

Taste and smell are off

It’s not difficult to tell.

 

Extra-sensory perception

Or, E.S.P. for short

Doesn’t trust the others,

It’s an intuition of sorts.

 

It goes beyond the five

It’s a sixth sense we say,

And it’s increasingly becoming

The acceptable way.

 

 

It incorporates the others

Then throws them out,

Having little regard for facts

And feeds on doubt.

 

Its best practitioners

Were mainly women

But men are getting there too,

That’s the huge problem.

 

Extra-sensory perception

Once a woman’s condition

Is now, I’m afraid,

A man’s predilection.

 

It doesn’t make sense

But who really cares?

It is less stressful you see

When sorting our affairs.

 

It is off the grid

And this we know

But it seems to be working,

It is E.S.P. on show.

 

 

How else can you explain

A world that is gone mad?

A world that has lost its senses

And this is truly sad.

 

Stewart Russell © May 2020

 

The Prodigal that Roamed & the Prodigal at Home Part 1

“Hi son, what is troubling you?”

“Why Father, I thought you knew,

We have this discussion all the time

It is time you give me what is mine.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?

Have you considered what you will miss?”

“Look Father, I have made up my mind,

I will not let you dissuade me another time.

I have attained unto that legal age

To have my own, I’ve reached that stage,

So Father, before I get into a rage

Please let me out of your restraining cage.”

“Son, a few more years would be perfect

Then I am sure you will have little regret,

Now is not the time to take that step

Still a few things you haven’t learnt yet.”

“Father I am ready, I know that I am,

Why surely you can see that I am a man,

I have thought this over; I have a plan,

 Time to get from under your command.”

Strange enough it was the younger boy

That wanted no more of Father’s employ

But Father conceded to let him go

Even though there was much he did not know.

So off he went to a far away land

Feeling rather smug with money in his hand,

Far away from his father’s command

Saying to himself, “I am my own man.”

O he had a fling and a very grand time

Day after day and nightly to unwind,

Nothing like song, women and wine

And the most costly places in which to dine.

Yes, friends he had and not a few,

He spent quite a bit on this parasitic crew,

As long as he could keep on meeting the cost

They were willing to pretend he was the boss.

Nothing lasts forever; even money doesn’t,

What happened next was not too pleasant,

His money ran out and so too his friends

And so the good life came to an abrupt end.

For many it takes money to make a man

So think of a man with no money in hand…

But what else could go wrong with his plan?

Would you believe it?  A famine in the land…

A famine is bad enough with money to spend

But this young man’s money had come to its end,

So where could he turn to make ends meet?

He found himself at a pigsty retreat.

He picked up a job simply feeding swine,

What a step down from women and wine!

Of the pigs’ lunch he would have eaten a share

But dared not in case the owner was near.

At his lowest he began to use his mind

This was not outback, this was out behind,

That’s where pigpens were, not a pleasant place

This Jewish son suffered quite a disgrace.

Whoever heard of Jews messing with pigs?

Or eating pig food: that can you dig?

But it was here that he came to his senses

And began to look at life through different lenses.

The servants at home had enough and to spare,

They didn’t worry about what to eat or wear,

His father looked after their every care

But here he was alone and in despair.

If I were Father’s servant I could make do,

As his hired servant I would surely get through,

Why stay here with these pigs and their mess?

As one of Father’s servants I won’t have this stress.

Then and there he decided on a course,

Planned a speech which he repeatedly rehearsed

Then he headed for home in the rags he wore,

A sorry picture dejected and footsore.

 

When yet a way off his father espied

Knowing his son by his gait and his stride,

Running to meet him he drew him to himself

In spite of his smell, his rags and poor health.

He never got the chance to give his speech,

Father was so happy to have him within reach,

He held a celebration that made the other son mad

But Father and his household were extremely glad.

Put a ring on his finger; outfit him with a robe,

Put shoes on his feet; we’re in celebration mode,

My son was lost but is back to say the least

Now kill the fatted calf and let’s have a feast.

In St. Luke chapter fifteen and verse seven

We read of similar rejoicing way up in heaven

Over a single sinner that ceases to roam

And at the Spirit's bidding returns to Father's home. 

Stewart Russell © 2016