Frankly, Mr. Shankly

That awkward moment when you’re invited out to an open mic night by your boss.

“Frankly, Mr. Shankly, this position I’ve held
It pays my way and it corrodes my soul
Oh, I didn’t realise that you wrote poetry
I didn’t realise you wrote such bloody awful poetry, Mr. Shankly”


3 responses to “Frankly, Mr. Shankly

  1. Your descriptions are simply gorgeous, my dear. My mouth is watering for something mounded with avocado and sprinkled with cilantro. The tang of tequila would not be absolutely amiss, either. I can feel the bittersweetness through your words and it makes it all the more beautiful that they all ring true.

    • You got all that from an old Smiths video?
      Just teasing, love — I realize you’re speaking sweetly of Santa Cruz. I suppose I should just be thankful you didn’t call me a cold slut — or rather, a licentious lady — I’d expect nothing but high brow rebukes from you, darling.

      • Yes, I just realized I clicked the wrong comment bubble… I fear my internet navigational compass is off today. I blame Al Gore. Or the nargles.
        As someone who has never been in…and therefore never “out”…of love, I have no room to rebuke or remonstrate. However, if the time comes when I must scold on situations of salaciousness, I prefer the terms “Lady of the Night” or trollop.

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