A poem on the horrors of a reunion
‘Good evening, sir, wind down the window please,
Perhaps you’d like to tell me where you’ve been.’
And so I tell him, starting with Denise
Who’s cock-a-hoop with all she’s done and seen,
And Spears, the prig, a keen, athletic sort
Who, taking me for someone else, I think,
Bombards me with his endless talk of sport
And drives me into starting on the drink
Which doesn’t help. They’re all in pairs you see,
All married, all well-off, all overjoyed
To meet again, all jolly, all but me,
The only one divorced and unemployed.
And so I tell him all he wants to know,
This officer whose face is just a blur,
Before I get the evening’s final blow:
‘Breathe into this, that’s right, keep blowing sir!’
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