Odour Clone
When I whistle, here you come,
Exactly as you always did,
A poor advisor, dodgy chum,
But still the same laconic kid:
Your taste is suspect, fashion nil,
You tend towards raw sentiment:
Easily led, you lack the will
To plead, apologise, repent.
I see you are on special offer
In the great pre-Christmas sale:
So cheap there’s money in my coffer
To snap you up. You’re turning pale –
But no, I won’t be buying you.
I have enough of you with me:
Besides, share me? It will not do.
I like it as I am, you see.
The moment that you press Repeat,
You never get what you desire –
It’s not you, mate. It’s me. Complete.
But try to find another buyer.
Click here to read a Guardian article
