A Morning Poem

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The Perfect Man

The perfect man is gentle
And never cruel or mean.
He has a perfect smile
And is always neat and clean.

The perfect man likes kids
And will raise them by your side.
He will be a caring father,
And good husband to his bride.

The perfect man loves cooking.
He will clean and vacuum, too.
He'll do what's in his power
To show his love for you.

The perfect man is sweet,
Writing poems with your name.
He's a best friend to your mother
And will kiss away your pain.

He never makes you cry
Nor caused you hurt in any way.
To hell with this endless poem --
The perfect man is gay.

Slough

I have recently moved home from the west of England to Berkshire, and my new post code is for Slough, although I am not living in Slough! This reminded me of the classic John Betjeman poem of the same name, which I reproduce below, without comments!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

Sir John Betjeman