Poems and Songs

To My Camera

My beautiful, my beautiful, that standeth proudly by,

Your chromium plated elegance enhances every eye.

I feel you pressed against my breast, or better still I trow

I know how much your magic touch can cool my fevered brow.

For years my hand has fed you with the films that you require,

And reverently pressed the knob to make your shutter fire

Then to replace you in your case I lovingly prepare

Where you remain exempt from strain till next you take the air.

Yet despite my constant heed, how strangely it befalls

My pictures seldom seem to reach the Exhibition walls.

They canít compare (it seems unfair) with Blankís, through his old thing

Is kept in shape by sellotape and fortified with string.

My beautiful, my beautiful, I wonder can it be

That cameras donít count as much as eyes that really see,

And when we try, both Blank and I, true pictures to create

Has he the flair the skill, the care, I but the chromium plate?



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