(Inspired by Rimy)


My partner's flies must surely hide a gun
(Or else there golf balls and a sausage lurk.)
If jeans be tight, why, 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. I must be insane!

-- THE END --

July 2005