I miss you less than a mousehole moon.
I miss you less than a catflapped cocoon.
I miss you like I miss a swaggering buffoon.
I miss you less than a household name,
ergo I miss you less than Cheggers or Charlemagne.
I miss you like I miss being
in a portaloo in a typhoon.
Miss you
like **** on my shoe
or **** on my socks.
I miss you less than Miss Hoolie from 'Balamory' on CBeebies
misses her sidearms. I miss you like Balamory misses H-achin'
'ooligan McDougalls from the pen of Irvine.
I miss you less than, I dunno,
the last of the Val Doonicans.
I'd miss you if I was sick as a skaggot of selfrespect.
Should I miss the vortex which was there
instead of wholesome loving whoresex?
I miss you like I miss
a spacehopper on the tightrope.
I miss you like I miss the Corpse of Hope.
I miss you like Christ misses his bike
or a fish misses a feminist.
And Abel
towhomallskeletonsareapprentices
could not miss missin' 'To The Manor Born'
both 1st time round and on Gold
the other umpteenillion showings,
or in anthologised form on boxset
in bluerayhidef
ANY LESS.
Yet I miss you less than that,
less than another time, place and culture's trivia
millennia after my death.
Hera forbid I'm one of Cupid's flibbertigibbets,
but I've no weepy wist for you now,
not e'en the weeniest whit,
now I bask in the favour, all righty,
of Aphrodite,
coz what me and my newbitofstuff's got
is bona fide.
I even miss all the times I missed before I met her;
I'd exchange ever being with you to have got here earlier.
But if I'm pushed,
I guess
I lament
your absence
as much as I miss Princess Diana's.
Call me 'Percy Controversy'
(or Controversial Percival the Thirdival in front of royalty),
but I never met the Lady.