This makes two bad poems within the space of a few weeks – sorry! This poem was inspired by trawling though the contents of my Shopping inbox as accumulated in the last few weeks. I was thinking massacre as in a massacre of the English language. Is it my imagination or is this Valentine's Day lark even worse this year? Do people actually buy into this stuff?
The least depressing Valentine's themed mailing, on account of having all number of items it would have never have occurred to me to give for Valentne’s Day, was the fetish shop mailing. Ur, now I must explain… I got on the mailing list by buying an entirely innocent pair of stockings. Long-legged ladies will know that it is impossible to get ladies’ stockings which are quite long enough, so one must wear stockings designed for men. Marks & Spencer don’t stock seamed stockings designed for men. In fact, M&S don’t even stock stockings with seams!
By Jingo, my grandfathers did not fight a World War with smudged eye-liner down their legs so that future generations could wear seamless polyester tights with a cotton gusset. Unfortunately the only place that a chap can get a decent pair of seamed stockings is in a fetish shop and that’s how I got on their list. Okay? Glad to have cleared that one up.
It occurs to me that if you are skint, you could learn this poem (give it a different title like My Lovely Darling Squelchy Princess) and recite it to the object of your affection. I did attempt this myself, but was interrupted during the second line with “Are you going to tell me what you want for lunch today or what?"
St. Valentine’s Day Massacre
Why tie a ribbon round my love,
Or cup my love in silk and lace?
Why smother it in chocolate
Which spoils me for my love’s own taste?
Why wrap pink paper round my love
Red hearts my love to represent?
Why bottle it with rich perfumes
Which mask love’s own distinctive scent?
Why bind my love in chains of gold,
Weighed down with jewels of wondrous size?
Why gild my love so to conceal
Love's naked beauty from my eyes?
Why muddle love with clumsy words,
Or flowers that quickly wilt and fade?
Why fill the room with violins,
And drown out love’s own serenade?
No fluffy handcuffs for my love
No bubbles, corked and left on ice.
Why tangle love in satin sheets?
My love’s own texture will suffice.
Why do I write these awful poems
In the middle of the night?
For in the morning I awake,
And read them – and I get a fright!