My Love is Theosophist

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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
  Her temper grows the sweeter.
My love is a Theosophist,
  And lives on Veeta Weeta.

My love is a Theosophist--
  Or, rather, is no longer;
For, though her Ego-urge was strong,
  The Cosmic Will as stronger.
While moving on the Higher Plane
  She moved into a lorry.
My love was a Theosophist,
  And really I'm not sorry.

© Patrick Barrington