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Monday, 16 February 2015

In which One is a lush born to gush...

And the sunlight clasps the earth
And the moonbeams kiss the sea
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?

Percy Byshe Shelley

If that had been penned for One, One's thumbs would have been immediately drawn to One's knicker elastic.
'Get yer cloak Perce, you've pulled'.

One has taken to reading 'Poem for the Day' again.
First introduced to the tome in the splendid drawing room of Lady Milverton at Flete Castle, One quickly became a faithful devotee, One's lyrical routine only to be briefly diverted from whilst in the maudlin company of the chatelaine of the Bung of Doom.

Presently, back to One's romantically inclined, dreamy self, One welcomes a daily recital of a love poem from the sweet lips of the A of the F, as he awakens One on a daily basis with an Espresso and a fag before repairing to the bog.

'You're gushing again,' said the A of the F, barely looking up from his Sudoku, as One delivered his second cup of Earl Grey, with the words, 'there you are my darling, oh sweet reason One draws breath.'
But, there you have it, Dear Reader, One is a lush born to gush.

Exuding romance from every available orifice, One set about deciphering the explanation of today's Poem of the Day, only to be chilled to the core to discover that Percy Byshe had penned the ditty for some gormless bint who was visiting him and Mrs Byshe in Florence.
AND to further inflame One, the selfish shit had left Mrs Byshe at home hoovering and minding the baby whilst he squired the sort round the galleries.

Should the A of the F ever express an interest in ripping the bodice of another, One would be forced to chin the faithless fecker, make no mistake, Dear Reader.



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