The Hill.

Picture this,

an English countryside, stretching far and wide,

while a man and his soon-to-be-bride watch the flow of the tide.

The seagulls call, ants and bugs crawl,

and in the air some dragonflies brawl.

He gives her a shawl, throws the dog his ball,

and watches it all, as day begins to fall.

The candle is lit, the scene is fit,

his mouth is slowly filling with spit,

he’s nervous about it,

but he knows that the relationship’s close-knit.

And if she’ll permit

then to her, he’ll commit.

Yet still, she’s ill,

and he gives her a pill,

that she’ll swill around her mouth,

and spit down the hill.

His tear ducts fill, spill and roll down his face

against his will, her condition will kill.

So he picks up the basket.

Time’s running out so he’d better ask it.

He bends down to one knee,

and now he can’t quit.

He charmed her with wit, her eyes lit,

she found him a hit. He was fit, clever,

The way they met was like a comedy skit.

He reaches in

with a nervous, cheesy grin,

picks out a small box and says “Lynn,

you’ve grown thin, got worse,

I’m scared about what’s going on, within.

Your skin is pale, and you’re not going to win.


But I love you,

I feel like our romance is still new.

If only we knew, that it wasn’t the flu,

things wouldn’t have changed

after that day at the zoo.

They said they’d found a breakthrough

yet you won’t come to, and inside you it will stew,

fall through, and kill you.

And that’s the way it’s going to be.

You’ve heard my plea,

but it was the first of three.

Now we’re here by the sea,

and to my heart you’re the key.

My second question, my Lynn,

will you marry me?”