Brian,
However did I guess that you'd do a spoof version?
Here's my afternoon's toil:
“Those patterned sweaters are
so dated! Plains
are “in”,
have been for ever and a day,”
I said. “Just throw the whole damn lot away;
they’re dull, old-fashioned, shabby, full of stains.”
My Dad, a martyr to his aches and pains,
a widower for eight years, come this May,
has given up on life. He doesn’t play
his friends at bowls, or golf (“It always rains”),
or dress up smartly, and he scarcely leaves
the house, except for short strolls if the sun’s
out and he’s bored. I’m going round with sheaves
of bumf for singles’ clubs... I hold my breath:
"You mean... you wouldn’t mind?” Great! Now he runs
around with Pearl. He used to wait for death.