12 February 2012


It’s always Tuesday morning, nearly ten,
When you arrive, at least that’s what I’d guess,
You burst into the shop with great finesse
And smiling buy some raspberry jam and when
You do I want to shout “My name is Glen!
Your little dimples make my heart a mess
I’d really like to watch when you undress.”
You must get told that every now and then.
But thankfully my mouth is tightly shut
Because I don’t want you to think I’m weird
Or that my mind is full of silly smut
Like visions of your perfect breasts all smeared
With raspberry jam. Maybe you’d like to snog?
I hope you read this on my sonnet blog.