It comes across my desk, and that’s a bit rude
in itself, isn’t it? Could certainly be construed
that way. I always thought if Ferguson put
Crouch, Bent and Duff in his starting line up
it was dodgy; even back then, you’d titter.
There you go. So, really, what’s this all about?
I’ll be straight, which reminds me of Zoe Gadsby
who wasn’t. In fact, she was fat, well, plus-sized
and there was something desperate in her eyes,
maybe she guessed, or saw it; unsurprised
that time we wrote our team down on paper
when pissed, of all the ones least likely to score.
Anyway, today there’s a knock on my office door,
cos next week, visitors, and a flustered librarian
with 500 dictionaries tossing off rude words
with gay abandon, ones that shouldn’t be heard,
haram; would I take my magic marker to them?
To put it plainly, be a lexical filter, verbal
scrubber,
put foul English language to the rubber,
pictured myself squatting for hours with piles
of books that came from the dreaming spires
of Oxford – or some other dump like that, anyway.
Now, she’s a lovely girl, but I told her, ‘Sorry,
super,
it’s a bit soft.’ Then explained - not that, but
that,
with the emphasis on ‘that’ and pointing at books,
but even so, she left my office with such a dirty
look
that it reminded me of Blackadder’s erect turnips,
and how it's nothing rude - until you sit on it, that is.
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