The Christmas crowd is roaring round the circus ring.
The bear is tearing up the master of the ring.
A stone dropped in the water does not see the ripple.
A tower struck by lightning does not hear bells ring.
On an abbey’s lawn I learned to make a daisy chain
from serious young men stretched out in a scattered ring.
I often think I moved my life to the wrong country.
The call is not for me whenever the phones ring.
Tempted to switch these verses round like playing cards,
I do, sometimes, to hear the cash register ring.
One thing leads to another, as one day the next,
but there are nights that huddle in a silver ring.
You have big ears, Jee, which are losing their hearing
to the bloodthirsty circus cheering for the ring.