Thursday, 19 December 2013

© At It Again

© At It Again

At a pinch it should be a cinch to gain your trust, just one more time.
At the annual general meeting, although it was fleeting, clearly there was shift in the paradigm
At a discreet table, she was more than able to run her hand along his thighs.
At the turnstile, she turned and smiled; the girl with the kaleidoscopic eyes. 
At the touch of her lips the prince became a frog and found a hollow log to croak in, so blue.
At a fork in the road was an ugly cane-toad that paused on the way to the heart of Kakadu.
At risk of adversity are the tenets of biodiversity; throw out the baby with the bath water.
At least you can see I went to university and learnt how to render a rather mixed metaphor.
At any price, we strive to keep things nice so dig up the coal; to hell with the reef!
At world’s end we can blame the other side; Lord, their crocodile tears are beyond belief.
At barbeques aplenty there are arguments that gently debunk the facts, whilst others bury heads. Say...
At risk of sounding churlish, boorish or truculent, ma’m you look quite succulent in those threads.
At present indications although the risks are many, we’ll save the economy before we spend a penny.
At length I said, ‘Have you rocks inside your head? Who cares when you’re dead and not getting any?’   

At the break-up party, I was feeling hale and hearty, when the casual conversation took a sinister turn.
At the epicentre, our muse and mentor was wallowing in self pity ‘cause the fools will never learn.
At the coast in Coolangatta, at the Track of Oodnadatta, there’s a sense it doesn’t matter what tomorrow holds.
At a fuchsia in my garden, there’s a parrot – no ‘beg pardon’ is feasting on the nectar held in the flower’s folds.
At such close range, it feels rather strange to know that their beauty is just a passing illusion.
‘At Eternity’s Gate’ is a painting by Van Gogh; a late model of the master’s art before his sad conclusion.
At home with my partner I’m content to wash the dishes, pay the rent or feed the fishes, whatever – here’s the list.
At first sight does love exist; at first light should we end this tryst? Oh but you’re so naughty, slap on wrist!
At her beck and call, through the junque shoppes we do trawl amazed at the bargains that are within.
At in French is à – my little pigeon, a most important preposition also meaning ‘to’ and ‘in’.
At the third stroke...I was feeling somewhat flustered and I admit that I just came all undone!
At what age should I stop acting childish? Most likely, when my funeral service has just begun.
At the start of this poem, verse, doggerel – what you will; I said that you could trust me –did I not?
At the conclusion of the ‘at’ trilogy, I offer a soliloquy – mutters: trust me... It’s another anagram you clot!

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