“I’ve had it up to here with misters.
I might as well become a nun.
I’d rather hug a horde of sisters
than any bloke and see our son
turn out to be his spitting image,
first barking mad, then bottled up,
his only joy another scrimmage,
his mind set on the Eff-Ay Cup.”
That’s Wendy Cope. But look, here’s me!
Please take your biro, if you will,
apart. That’s it. Remove the spring
and str-e-tch it out of shape. You see?
They twisted me like that until
I wasn’t good for anything.