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There is a babe online I talk to from time to time and her name is Clairey-Lou.
She lives in Worcester on the other side of the UK, prolly never will rendezvous.
She got big doe eyes next ta which Bambi's seem positively beady.
Her fav sarnie is salad cream and mayo... baby, that's crazy!
Other 1/2, Harvey, won't start a family
- from what she tell me, he ain't cruel.
Coz another lost bubby
just about send Clairey loopyloo.

And sometimes when we log off, we write 'Elephant Juice'.
CL says lips make the  same movements
enunciating E.J. as when you say 'I love you'.
I don't know why we text it, but it's nice.
It's like our way of saying I don't love you IRL,
but let's enjoy a fantasy that if we met, we might.

Her BFF is Bridie, their Friday night selfies so ebullient
I crack a smile.
She works a Chain Hotel;her cupsize is EE; troll follows her called Gabriel.
She says I am a hotty, but if we're talking flattery, file me under 'Terry Teflon'.
Norwich Catfish's tats, cuts, cicatrices only a filter could see thru.
Sleepless in Worcester, who do ya dream ya talk to?
Coz I got pet'll set off your catishoos.
Bless you, Miss Worcester, I tell you who ya talk ta:
stissed, poned sad poet, crooning Clairey-Lou.

And sometimes when we sign off, we type 'Elephant Juice'.
CL says lips make the same movements
enunciating E.J. as when you say 'I love you'.
I don't know why we text it, but it's nice.
It's like our way of saying I don't love you IRL,
but let's not destroy the fantasy that if we met, we might.

Don't tell Harvey sometimes we write 'Elephant Juice'!
Don't tell Harvey sometimes we type 'Elephant Juice'!
I don't drink & I don't smoke.
I don't snort yogurt
& I never get my oats.
Don't like a lil' joke
w/ the commonfolk
- got no strength,
so I need one hope:
got a length of rope,
good ol' length of rope
I keep at the back of the wardrobe.

Cheat a cruel God,
coz you're mentally scarred.
An escape pod,
outta jail card.
Ghost eyes of glass,
lost marbles in the yard
- ain't no waterworks from waxworks
at Madame Tussauds!

Behind my polyester,
behind her nylon,
ain't no witch &
there ain't no lion.
Ain't no suit gonna
maketh me a man,
or broaden my shoulder
like Alexis Colby's!
Foetal pose
in Emperor's new clothes,
accessorising only
w/ a length of rope,
long overdue
nuchal cord  
I keep at the back
of the wardrobe.

Wrote my note,
said I felt like Job
when Lucifer had a
flutter with the Lord,
'cept my faith broke.
So I tried to choke
lump in my throat,
but knot went nope.
Jobsworth in white coat
confiscated my rope,
but I still got the cord
on my acute ward robe.

— The End —