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I'm a knickerlicker, I mean, my tongue's in a twist
when it's Miss Tiffany Apple I do address.
She smokes furiously, drives 100mph,
& Tiffapple's poison is Angel Sours
- tho' later I met her ex's ex, who labrished
Tiff had sunk more bottlesofvino than tide
at Waxham beach post-examresults.
But I had inkling quidnunc was green-eyed,
eclipsed
by what a wuxom bench Tiff does present
in her favorite
snugfitting
sparklestriped
jumper dress.  

So she whooped me at pool, I wasn't flush
w/ success at fuze-
ball either, Tiff wasn't impressed.
She's one of the lads & I am just a wuss.
Prollysplains why her blackcardied arm
in rebuffing imitation
of Bela Lugosi's dunt stouble
neckerchiefed her lips
when I went into smooch
that beautiful hard face.  

Silver ivy ink
on her alabaster wrists
(ivy as in '& the holly', not intravenous).
Bent over the table, she's snookilicious.
It's a tricky shot, but Tiff's a beast on the baize.
& a butcher at badminton, or so she says:
we never played.
Betja never heard
of Betjeman or Joan Hunter Dunn,
Tiff, furnished but unburnished by
Attleborough sun.  At school,
she was goth gal adorned w/
Jack Skellingtons,
& she still has a goth gal's snowwhite complexion.
Intimations of eleckissity
like that 1st frenchie at school,
but there's no fool like a 35yr old fool.

She's just a kid who thinks it's cool to be a *****,
but, baby, it's so not, not really.
Don't add to life's ***** tapestry.
She's still just a kid, just with a killer ***
- aren't they all when they're barely 20?
Well, can't say mine was,
but you catch my drift.
Still a kid who's gutted Busted split,
tho' I guess I'm still gutted Kurt had a gun
- he swore he dint!
But any kid would have a beautiful hard face
if Daddy was in denial
Mummy's mission
was drinking her remission
into submission, ******* cells back
into malignant fission.

O I am just a jessie,
but she's one of the boys
- in one sitting Tiff destroyed 7 saveloys!
& I am not Matt Willis, alas, what malice
is this? Just the usual:
she's giving me a miss.

But when the last in a lifetime
of crestfallen sighs jilts my body,
& classic rock stations of the future  
give Busted a miss
forevermore,
when Tiff is crabby & wrinkly
-  visage uglier, softer -
she will still be the hardfaced
Venus of Attleborough
in this immortal doggerel.
Form of emotional graymail,
my longrunning answer to imaginary RSVP
that another Dear John over the dog & the bone
sends to that ghoul for my selfdisgust,
who is my real muse:
sorry, Tiffany - it's me.

Tho' were Miss Tiffapple to reperuse
my rejectionprocessing paean
to her flet beauty in an aeon
- when she's crabby & wrinkly, uglier, softer,
it'd be more poignant
if Kindlescreens went crinkly
& chronologised coffeerings like jotters.
For Squadling, 2013
If you like Pina Coladas, getting caught in the rain,
the endless rain, the purple rain...
If you like Special Brew, well, no-one actually likes Special Brew,
but if there's times you'll do anything to misconstrue pain.

If you like Pina Coladas sharing a bath,
if your heart's been smithereened but you still like a laugh,
if sometimes you feel like you're still 16
and no-one wants to dance, then I'm the love

who's bit bananas, bit vanilla, prudish heart true,
I'm the lover it'd hurt to hurt you.
My exes said they loved me, but they all had X-ies.
Sensitive guys just ain't ****.

If you like making love at midnight in the dunes at Walberswick,
if you think you'll never meet anyone interesting on the internet,
if you've put 'non-smoker' but when you get let down you seek
cigarettes, then reply on OKCupid and we'll quit regrets.

If you think short guys ain't worth ****,
but you must admit you're a manlet magnet,
well, I walked the eggshell vale from l'homlette to Hamlet,
the razor's edge of the quietus a bare bodkin makes

to meet a sensimilla Ophelia too ******
on sadness to be near the lake this late.
I'll throw the rubber ring of love like a bouquet, catch it!
It's yours.
But sensitive guys just ain't **** no more.

I'll throw that life-preserver of love tho' I throw like a girl,
and Pina Coladas leave me cold like the rain.
But reply on OKCupid and for the 1st time in les temps perdu,
let's feel like French teens frenchying by banks of the Seine

(if you 'll settle for  picnic by the Broads, Norfolk don't have a cape).
Don't make me feel like Gimli from Tolkien, who his battleaxe
contemplates
for chap of below average height's bare bodkin escape, ay?
Like sensitive guys just ain't **** these days.

— The End —