Jam

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.

AW