My Love is Theosophist
My love is a Theosophist
And reads the Ramayana;
Her luncheon is a pot of tea,
Her breakfast a banana.
She says that matter tends to clog
The spirit-force behind it.
My love is a Theosophist,
And very tough I find it.
My love is a Theosophist
And wears no combinations;
She says they get her thought-urge weak
And lower her vibrations.
She tells me flannel next the skin
Impedes the astral motions.
My love is a Theosophist,
And has the strangest notions.
My love is a Theosophist,
And few things I deplore as
Sincerely as the thoughtless way
She crabs her neighbours' auras.
She sensed Miss Hope's as bilious green,
And got some quack to vet it.
My love is a Theosophist,
And many folk regret it.
My love is a Theosophist,
And though distinctly stouter
She moves on a more mental plane
Than do the folks about her.
She moved into a potted plant
Last week at Mrs Reece's.
My love is a Theosophist,
So I picked up the pieces.
My love is a Theosophist,
And has an intimation
That she was Florence Nightingale
In her last incarnation.
She senses me as Titus Oates,
More Ape-man than Apollo,
My love is a Theosophist,
And difficult to follow.
My love is a Theosophist,
And does not seem to worry
If they forget to send the fish
Or fail to cook the curry.
As my potatoes grow more burnt
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poem by Patrick Barrington
Added by Poetry Lover
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