He is nice.
What a description.
Nice as sticky rice.
What a depiction.

He's soppy as a bubbling puddle, overflowing.
With leftovers of muddy welly boots.
Very shortly she'll be going.

He's in a muddle.
He's set down his boring roots.
He sobs as he steals the stars from up in the heavens.
So he can give her a present.
That she may not relate to.
He doesn't have a clue.
His only real interest.
Football team elevens.
Boredom is his kingdom.
His crown covers a frown.

Long may he there in peace be dwelling.
Under her nose this fellow's,  a little unpleasant smelling.
His sword is made of whale blubber.
Borrowed from a passing mammal.
Like his personality...just a little rubber.
(C) LIVVI