shit poem

T’was the night before boob op

when all through the house

not a flatmate was stirring

not even a mouse.

Hospital stockings were hung

by the fire with care

in the hopes that st christopher

would soon be there.
while I  in my front opening bra

and noone to cuddle

I opened a post

and wrote out this muddle.

And then in four hours

I’ll arise from the gutter

put baggy clothes on

and take out the clutter

and what to my watering eyes will appear

but my best friend lala to tell me there’s nothing to fear.

Aside | This entry was posted in home and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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