Colin Firth on my commute again

Chug chug chug

There are looks and then there are stares

And wide-eyed candy floss pink blushes

Contained in dim lit, smoke studded carriages

Stuffed with meat and bodies and faces and breaths

Some of which aren’t as sweet smelling

As the dulcet tones of Elizabeth Bennett

Or Mr Darcy and his linens (I presume)

A meaty marathon of viewing this weekend

Has urged me to start saying “I am not 27”

Just like when they say they’re “not 16”

Or “not one and 20”

Because it sounds more abstract

A guessing game

And I’m sure I would be looked at quizzical

But I’d probably enjoy it
As that’s the kind of shit I get off on.

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