Wouldn't I? Couldn't I?

I am perfectly prepared
to say "boo" to a goose

and butter always melts in my mouth.

I have knocked the skin
off a thousand rice puddings

and I am fully aware
of the location of my elbow
in relation to my posterior.

Speaking of which,
I am more than capable
of hitting a cow's bottom with a banjo
(yet I have no desire to do so).

I would always know you from Adam.
You simply don't match up at all.
You're a bland and perma-tanned copy
and your poor wife keeps calling you Paul...


...but if you'll excuse me,
my spirits are flagging.
I must away and meditate
inside my portakabin.

The poet, the morning after a busy evening spent burning the souls of the innocent whilst jacked up on Oranjeboom and poppers.

B.R. 01/04/2015