Monday, 21 June 2010


In response to yet another challenge that I couldn't write a peom about navel fluff.

To all those young and sprightly things
Seeking that perfect man;
I sympathise with your demise,
But criticise your plan.
You wine and dine, Ad Nauseime
And bill and coo all night.
But how in blazes can you tell
If HE is Mr Right?
You ‘shoop-shoop’ all you want, my dear -
His kiss will tell you nowt!
You’ll need to search much lower, if
You’re ever to find out.
No house, car, eyes, nor bank account
Will tell you quite enough.
Pish-Tush! My dear – the answer’s clear –
It’s in his navel fluff!
At your first chance - disco or dance,
Even if you must shout,
You must demand “Here! In my hand!”
And make him GET IT OUT!
There is a knack to fluff ‘attack’-
Know what you’re looking for.
Dead cookies, crumbs, tortilla chips -
Your outlook’s pretty poor.
Cat Hairs – no way – a Mummy’s Boy!
You’ll find no comfort there.
Grass seed? The Weed!! Retreat at speed –
Been trulling the Au Pair!
Is it ALL fluff? The man’s a puff!
He grooms his Teddy gaily;
Is it all grime? Will he have time -
Working sixteen hours daily?
Do you smell beer? – No WAY, my dear!
He spilt it there last night!
He’ll hock the kids and eat the dog
While spoiling for a fight!
Did you find NONE? You’d better run!
He’s covered all his tracks!
A shifty one who’ll ‘carry on’
Behind our very backs.
No, no; The balance must portray
A steady homely chap
Unmoved by half-dressed bimbo’s who
Cavort across his lap.
PTFE Tape, Superglue,
Show merit of some kind.
A tea-bag or an oven mitt
Are also good to find.
Whatever ‘tis you’re looking for
You’ll find out for yourself
The reason why – at 49 -
I’m left here on the shelf!