Making sense of the world with words
For all the women who, like me, spent an unhealthy proportion of their twenties queuing in girls’ toilets in various clubs and bars across London.
He’s got a penis like a pritt-stick.
Oooh, is that lipstick?
Ah babe, can I borrow it?
Thanks love. Your tits
look bangin’ in that top.
Girls, chop chop in there!
…
Some meetings are more memorable than others. Some are even worthy of a poem:
Deep in the Welsh mountains where revellers reeled,
We met in a rowdy and colourful field,
In a white Stetson hat, beside me he kneeled,
He was hunting for treasure, I was too, it was sealed.
…
I feel like we all have a Fred in our lives. If we don’t, it’s probably because we are that person.
This poem is based on true events and should serve as a warning to anyone who proves impossible to lure out of bed in the morning – hangovers excepted:
There was a young man called Fred
Who regarded awaking with dread,
He could not, of his own accord, EVER get out of bed.
…
