When I was a teenager at school, me and a friend decided to write a book of rubbish poems. We never got very far with it. This is a good thing. We saved the literary world a lot of grief. I wrote a poem about taking a bath. Here it is:
Oh why did you leave me
when I was so comfortable in the silky soft waters of my bath?
Suddenly as the door slammed shut
A sudden feeling came over me such as that I had never felt before.
My big toe was stuck up the cold tap,
and my undies were on the floor.
The book, which in its production stage only got as far as a few scribblings in an exercise book, was titled "Trash by PJSRM". The letters are a conflation of our initials. It might lay somewhere now, gathering dust in the dark recesses of my friend's attic, or, most likely long ago lost or destroyed, returned to the dust of a near forgotten dream.
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