I got drunk and awkward in the pub, it appears I wrote a poem, obviously this needed to be shared with the internet, because otherwise, I'd not have the opportunity to cringe.
/indulgence
They call me soft around the middle,
I really couldn't give a piddle,
when my hands are cold sometimes I fiddle,
It's warm and squishy to the touch,
not that foreign hands explore me much,
I love my food, I like a drink,
when I have too much my cheeks go pink,
and this is often when I think,
just who are they indeed to judge,
quite what should happen to my pudge.
12 years
