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

 

23 December 2015

A couple in Yorkshire have had their dead dog cloned for £75,000.


POETRY KIT WEBRING

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