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A wee Sunday poem.

 

66% Match.

 

He likes bowling and football, nachos and cheese,

being down at the pub having laughs with his mates.

Ordinarily doesn’t do dating like this,

but he’s going bald – so he’s eager to please.

 

Will watch rom-coms! Can iron! – how rare in a boy!

And he has a good job, though it’s not a career,

he can cook a good curry, and paint a good fence,

and once kissed a tranny but isn’t a queer.

 

 

He used to go clubbing but now he gets tinnitus,

loses his coat and is sick on the train.

At his golf club he’s secretary – ‘Rob, can you minute this?’

Likes to play with his dad – though this year? Too much rain.

 

 

He’s the Sainsbury’s type – Waitrose just too ‘organic’,

uses Colgate, Nescafe, Durex, Listerine.

Has a soft spot for Dickinson’s ‘Cash in the Attic’

Keeps the bathroom and kitchen both passably clean.

 

 

This one girlfriend – well, that’s why its still in his cupboard –

he’d wondered if she was alright in the head,

but he’ll do nurse and doctor, like corsets, suspenders;

he’s open to new things, in reason, in bed.

 

He says with the right sort of girl he’d like babies,

amongst men of his age a minority view.

And there aren’t tattoos visible, hunchback,  or rabies.

Och, likelihood is? He will probably do.

 

 

You could get him a shed he could stay in till supper

grow Leylandii round it, incredibly tall.

Invest in an overseas job, and sunglasses –

get married, and then barely see him at all.

 

Big white dress, big white cake (triple-tiered) – princess heaven!

Enough rhinestones to blind him or drive him insane,

and he’d love you – WHAT’S THIS? HE’S JUST FIVE FOOT ELEVEN???

And – bang – you won’t message him ever again.

 

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