The thread title of course is absolutely it, on the nail's head it hath hit.
I spend many a happy hour in the clearings of the local parks (which have
reverted to jungle owing to public spending cutbacks) beating my chest
(which as a male poet's is obviously huge) rhythmically to the thrum of my
verses while adoring and compliant females throw dead rabbits, teabags, pink
fluffy rugs, frozen sausages, traumatised teddy bears, vacuum cleaners in
need of repair, dish racks, pints of cider, chickens, half packets of fags
and other such treasures at my feet.
Deo Gratias
Dave
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