A wee Sunday poem.
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.