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She smoked, but,
God what smoke,
And lips of an Angel too,
Eyes turquoise blue,
Such beauty until she spoke…

He smiles first,
Glancing here, there
Avoiding her fierce stare
While at him - on she cursed.

This and that,
And more that than this,
All about some random kiss?
This cricketer without his bat…

Poor sod.

Does he stay or leave,
Run for the hills?
Should he pay the bill?
Now across she grabs his sleeve!

Just then a kind of gent
from England
At the next table beside
Astonished by this Latin bride
Her man filleted like a kipper

Eyes them both with scorn
Some call this demonstration
A form of foreign affection
More like of no breeding born

Action required.

Our hero from Albany
Stands and swats the girl
With his FQR he does swirl
As only taught in Picadilly.

Oh dear, how the French are silly.

– Unknown Sherpa

George Ingle-Finch

George Ingle-Finch
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