This man is a ghost,
I’ve seen him from my past -
The claustrophobic carpets, war-time music, teak-veneered furniture,
Gas fire always on,
A snug little home,
A hell-hole for a rat to gnaw on plump kittens.
Don’t take a bath – he’ll peek round the door!
The psychological warfare begins in the morning,
The casual undermining, the pleading, the criticism,
Then continues in the evening -
Chocolates, your favourite music,
He treats you well, this damp little man.
A motorbike accident crippled his balls, apparently:
He can’t get it up.
Three times in a row his hot water bottle bursts,
Three nights he inveigles himself into my bed and tries it on,
I finally twig and I’m GONE.
‘Oh yes,’ his colleague says casually, ‘Ah!’
Thanks, mate.
