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Donkin's World: Looking For Qi

"My life is an open door, donít knock,'' writes Richard Donkin.

My life is an open door, donít knock,
Sling your coat on a chair, there,
Lay down your hat,
Thereís water in the kettle, hard,
Please stay and have a chat,
Then read the tea,
If tasseographyís your thing.

My life is an open book, dip in,
And thumb the index, look,
Turn down a corner,
Pencil the margins,
Feel free to underline
Anything Iíve written,
Itís all perfectly fine.

If Iím out, sit down, relax,
Watch some TV, the BBC
Is still OK, they say.
Take your fill from the fridge,
There may be mould
On old Cheddar.

Rummage through drawers,
Bend your neck,
Digest the spines
On laden shelves, there,
Light a fire, get warm,
Have a beer, itís Becks,
Or glass of wine, Sancerre
Thatís good, thereís better red,
Itís hard to find.

Visit the loo if you must,
Itís by the stairs, they always are,
Thereís a problem with the flush
The plumber said heíd fix
Some eighteen months ago.
Iím sorry about the dust,
The smudges in the hall,
The little cobweb nests,
And places where moths feast
And dead flies fall.

Shower, change your clothes,
Just make yourself at home,
Go on, have your say like Goldilocks,
Iíve got all day.

One door is locked and secret;
If youíre feeling stable
Pick up the key,
Iíll leave it on the table in plain view
By the plastic-wrapped Sundays
With features on feng shui,
Comprehensively ignored

But donít adjust my set,
Or rearrange my furniture
Or tell me how to find God.

The one true path
Is down the garden to my compost bins,
Where I throw the weeds.
If you see one, pull it up,
And turn out the lights when you leave.


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