the Bodie of Avon
My partner's flies must surely hide a gun
(Or else there golf balls and a sausage lurk.)
If jeans be tight, then his are painted on;
(He knows I stare; he planned it all, the berk.)
If hairs be wires, then his are tangled coils
In which, no doubt, he houses hosts of fleas.
His lips I see most often pursed in scorn;
(I'd rather have him purse them on his knees.)
I love to hear him speak, and yet his talk
Is mostly blither -- Christ, he sounds a prat!
Whilst other men may lope or strut or walk,
He doesn't walk; he slithers like a cat.
His imperfections make him worth disdain,
And yet, I love him. Am I, then, insane?
redchance @ aol.com
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