By Stanley Collymore
What would I have done without you in my life
you rather unexpectedly but clearly jokingly
I assume wanted to know and decided you
would ask?  Find myself another good
but evidently incomparable to you
woman naturally I was flippantly
tempted to spontaneously and diplomatically
reply but finally logically and judiciously
did not, as I could grasp and therefore
also suddenly realize how pointless
my conjecture on that unarguably
thorny subject and something
that happily didn’t happen
but could so possibly if
commented on quite
needlessly open up
a can of difficult
worms for me.
For in my honest opinion even if I were
inclined, which frankly I wasn’t in the
least persuaded that I should be, to
give an off the cuff or even a
straightforward answer
either possibly truth–
fully but more likely than not a consolingly
misleading and pertinently wisely too a
diplomatic one to your enquiry neither
of them would either be forthrightly
relevant, or even in the slightest
fair, given that your question
was in actual fact strictly a
hypothetical supposition;
something cleverly thrown
into the air by you and
quite specifically to
attain from me an
So in the given circumstances and with the dice
of probability so heavily loaded against
me why then should I bother to even
start trying to treat your whimsical
query as though it was a serious
question? For when it comes
down to personal emotions
I always deal in reality, a
fundamental stance of which I’m fully
cognizant that you’re similarly well
aware of and most categorically
and exclusively accounts for
why you are here in my
life– the only woman–
cum-lady I’ve ever
truthfully wanted
to be and have
chosen as
my wife!
© Stanley V. Collymore
16 September 2016.

Author’s Remarks:
This poem was purposely conceptualized, created and specifically written with genuinely heterosexual persons and couples exclusively in mind and who are themselves either already in or else seriously contemplating on embarking on a constructive and meaningful relationship with that special person in their life, be it as a partner, husband or wife.

This notwithstanding that one or even both of you may have previously gone astray in your particular relationship but having wisely seen sense and positively reacted to its dire warning are now back together and what’s more in champion style and thrillingly robust form, both of these buttressed by your erstwhile failings as you now make a gutsy and commendable go at repairing as well as firmly and pleasurably consolidating your precious relationship.

However and by no stretch of the imagination – my own or that of any other conscionable person – is this poem in any way intended for any of the following loathsome and deviant persons: those smitten by Dykeism or Queerism whether of the open sort or the closet variety and regardless of whatever powerful position(s) they hold socially or professionally in the United Kingdom or the influence that they wield.

Neither is it for paedophiles; those who support or protect them, or astonishingly with mindboggling condescension and incredible brazenness universally accord to these sickeningly and invariably privileged elite perverts blanket official immunity either politically, through a disreputable Crown Prosecution Service, Police and the national law enforcement system; or a corrupt and itself deeply tarnished and immensely paedophilic in character UK and particularly English and Welsh judiciary!

And so to this latter and utterly despised by me inured sewer scum I unapologetically say to all of you in relation to this poem – piss off and don’t even look at it far less so take to reading it. For it’s not meant for gutter rats like you that despairingly for all the decent residents within the UK’s population see you increasingly emerging in huge numbers and in officially designated genderless Britain, in which you’ve played a major part in this transformation, from the stinking sewer where you permanently belong and ought forcibly to be made to stay.

Reading me loud and clear Ms Hiliary Benn; Messrs Eagle, Julia Wendy Macur, Kezia Dugdale, Laura Kuenssberg and testosterone May; and complementing this phalanx of human detritus the several truculent dominatrix and their girlie submissive Misses – or bitches as they would much prefer that you call them and of whom the constraints of time only allow me to name a tiny fraction of them – Keith Vaz, Ian McNicol, Philip Sales, Jack Beatson, NEIL COYLE: him who wants to sue Jeremy Corbyn – hello sweetie – and Tom Watson!


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