One Night in Grantham

Swathed in Jim Bergerac's leather jacket,

I strap my head into a lobster pot helmet,

crimp my luscious camel lashes,

draw a douchebag 'tache on my lip with felt tip

and perch a pair of perky pince-nez on the bridge of my neb.

It feels like high time for my muklukked feet to hit the street.

 

I am cool, cocky and confident;

my mating dance looks magnificent

(the old Blockbuster hand jive

sure brings the queens to the beehive).

 

I mooch on down

to (Leslie) Grantham town centre,

skilled in the art of love

and looking for thrills.

 

Three hours 18 minutes later:

Now, 'ere I am,

sat on me 'arris in these cells

and that copper is winking at me
decidedly lasciviously...

B.R. 28/10/2014