Shameless

As my series of Facebook images from the seventies demonstrate, I am utterly without shame.

Reproduced below, therefore, is the text of the only poem I have ever knowingly written, discovered at the weekend on the back of postcard in a box in the attic eaves. IIRC, I was intending to give the poem to a girl I knew at Uni in an effort to woo her into bed. Presumably I thought better of giving her the poem, and I certainly never managed the wooing either.

Still, in a world where Richard Ayoade continues to get work and Joe Lidster* is going to write an episode of Torchwood, lack of talent is no barrier to success and my few poorly scanning lines are probably on a par with Shakespeare's Sonnets.

[clears throat]

"Where else could I lie amidst such beauty,
As in my lover's arms?
Where else could I hear sounds slip so sweetly
As from her subtle tongue?
For my love is nothing like
Other butterflies I've pinned,
But a mockingbird, high in the hills,
Whistling to the wind."

[bows]

I thank you...

[exits, pursued by a bear]

* Who I'm sure is a lovely person otherwise (this is for the benefit of Mondy, who keeps telling me that he is)