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Tick

Entertaining how little can make
you weep. Stop it.
 
You know I hate your pointless
quivering blames. Great.
 
Why do you think I often partake
of drink. It's you.
 
You fat cow bloated on gripes
of whine. I'm gone.
 
Mostly you see it's nature's way
but now. You're firm.
 
In a wibbly wobbly way I laugh
and point. You stop.
 
How little it takes to beat you
sofa sunk. I sit.
 
My arm encircles it (you)
stupid whore. You cry.
 
And that's one more for the score
to me. You're mine (tick).
 
I love you enough to keep you here
you hole. Stop dead.
 
I find it best when you accept
I'm gone. And on.
 
Today I'm down the pub with mates
not you. But you -
 
You're special, aren't you?

- Simon Huggins, 7th July 2002