Bills and Moon

When the book you’ve bought is battered but it didn’t cost a lot,

and the hooks have all been shattered ‘cos the blurb tells all the plot,

and you look for idle chatter ‘cos your brain’s tied in a knot,

you’re a shattered, battered, chatterbox whose brain has lost the plot.

When it’s better than a natter on a Sunday afternoon,

and the bit of blurb is splattered with a saucy sexy swoon

and you think it doesn’t matter that the author’s a baboon

you’re a shattered, knackered slacker with the latest Mills and Boon.

When the girl is very pretty but is shy and all alone

there’s an earl who’s dark and gritty, or a guy who’s made of stone,

and the pearl that’s in his kitty is a huge testosterone

it’s a bit of nitty gritty with a moral undertone.

When the heroine is crying ‘cos she’s made a big mistake

and she’s very close to dying from the venom of a snake

but the hairy man comes flying with his juicy pound of steak

it’s a wary scary subtext where your dignity’s at stake.

When your reading is exceeding all the other things you do

and you’re pleading with your library to import a ton or two

and you’re reading while you’re breeding and proceeding to be needing the stampeding of a hero who can cock-a-doodle-do….

then…

you’re a pretty, gritty kitty with a stamina of iron

eating buttered, battered booklets with the hunger of a lion

you’ll impress the best assessor from the moon to Cameroon

by your cluttered, clattered

chuttered, chattered,

knickered, knackered

shickered shackered,

brickered, brackered

tittered, tattered

notes on Mills and Boon.

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