[Graham King]

Everything posted above in this thread impresses me greatly!

(I do however like those panda hats... on other people, you understand...)

[John Whitworth]

Little Lady

Twinkle, twinkle, little lady,
Smile the smile that's sweet and shady,
Teeter on your dainty feet.
Everything you are is meat.

Dancing, glancing little cutie,
Walk the walk that's fresh and fruity
In your padded baby bra
No-one wonders what you are.

Little princess, bat those lashes.
Baby blues are where the cash is.
Daddy thinks you're yummy-yummy.
Swing those hips and come to Mummy.

Twinkle, twinkle little girl.
On your catwalk strut and swirl,
Pert, provocative and bold,
Though you're scarcely six years old.

[Ann Drysdale]

John - this called forth a fierce "Yes!".

France is banning them, so should we. Poor Honey Boo Boo.

[Rob Stuart]

Banning what, Ann? Children? Bloody good job too, if you ask me.

[John Whitworth]

Ann is talking about children's beauty contests when six-year-olds dress like beauty queens and parade up and down. Their mothers should be imprisoned. And shot if they re-offend.

[Douglas G. Brown]

The movie "Little Miss Sunshine" is a very humorous take on these "little girl" beauty contests.

[John Whitworth]

Thank you for that, Douglas.

[Ann Drysdale]

Another Edna St Vincent Millay sonnet...

“Time does not bring relief. You all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!” etc.

As something of an expert at this game,
Allow me to propose a course of action.
First of all, close your eyes and speak his name
And revel in the lack of satisfaction.
Revisit where you went. Let yourself go –
Replay the conversation. Criticise.
See if it makes a difference now you know
Those little inconsistencies were lies.
Get very drunk. Light candles in your room,
Settle yourself cross-legged on the floor.
Imagine where he might be, and with whom;
Then ask yourself what you are weeping for.
Come, share with me the chocolate and the gin
And let us celebrate the mess we’re in.

[Martin Parker]

Now ensconced in new home, though not the one we had originally intended. Back on Internet after a gap of two months. No chance of finding time to write anything new, so I shall need to rely on recycling from now on.

Fortunately -- or maybe not -- I have unlimited stocks of this sort of stuff :--

KEATS ON THE STREETS AT CLOSING TIME


Much have I travelled past the late-night bars
and many drunken revellers have I seen
whose vodka shots and alcopops have been
thrown up into the streets or over cars
by girls -- in belt-width skirts and skimpy bras
with nothing but goose pimples in between --
called Kayleigh, Karly, Kylie or Charlene,
too drunk to stand beneath dawn’s fading stars.
And then I wonder what can be the gain,
except to satisfy the taxman’s yen,
of making drink so easy to obtain
by scarce-pubescent girls and not-yet men
just so that every semi-dressed Charmaine
can puke each night upon some prick called Darren.

[Rob Stuart]

I reckon that's a cracker, Martin.