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Along rue de Whimsy

Is it true bubbles make things better,
Like a sunny day doesn’t hurt;
Like a lithesome newly met lady
With a surprising yielding tight skirt?

Or, regard granite-rendered shoulders
Attending a chin suitably cleft.
But, then, the storm is awash the bulkhead
And all Joy has upped and swiftly left.

Can you tell me the way back to happy?
Or, the land over near next to not bad?
We all need a Springtime vacation
From this our time melted into so sad

Paris plans wrap their Arch,
But the Old Caesar is so very dead.
And I can’t abide those self-gilded Trumpettes—
I’d very much rather someone else instead.

Magna Laude will discover une baguette,
As I count the steps to the third etage:
Gray, overcast, with a soft Parisien rain—
All cares forwarded to Le Voice Message.

Is it true bubbles make all things better,
Like a sunny day doesn’t at all hurt?
Salut, Soleil, comment ca va?
Our days grow short, time to be alert.

Proceeding

It was two glasses in
And the curling memory of brunette hair,
But she has erewhile gone
And Sonoma Merlot just doesn’t care.
The rhymes won’t come—
Here I am inside this couplet mess.
I guess it takes more than mere Love
To complete this synapsing poetic process.
Meld two roughs into one,
Balance the scan and mind the rhyme,
Maybe I’ll get some ‘Likes’;
I manage to do so from time to time.
Fear floods in;
I managed to lose my job.
Now with gray hairs and beard
Who now would care to hobnob.
Today next-door neighbor
Pleasantly responded to my hi and hello.
There’s no ‘there’ there
And it’s so past time for me to go.
Brother turned sixty—
Who knows about sixty-one.
Wish we were better friends;
A brother would be nice on this long end run.
We need a finishing couplet to release our tortured reader;
It’s all good, love from your poet, another forgotten bottom feeder.