The danger of visiting posh toilets

Have you ever been in one of those shiny new places

With crisp mirrors set into blue lazer bright tiles,

Where the reflections are only of beautiful faces

Well-trimmed eyebrows, neat nosehair and toothy, white smiles?


After using the urinal disguised as a fountain

And the basin disguised as a wall hanging plant

Hands dried, you inspect the pores and start counting

The number of eyelashes too terminally bent.

And suddenly notice the way bright lights are angled

Gleaming and glinting from every which way.

They light up your ear hair – so eerily spangled

Glistening and sparkling in random display.

The ‘F’ Word

I don’t like the way ‘F’ sounds

Eff. Phhhh. Phuh. Effeffeffeff.

It’s clumsy at the end of a word.

Makes rhyming difficult: like life

Only really rhymes with wife

And strife, I suppose.

Oh and knife – that goes.

‘F’ spoils beautiful

And starts that word we don’t like to say.

But it does have one redeeming feature:


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