I’ve almosted killed you
in front of the glass door,
then I’ve framed you
everytime I committed mischeif.
Trust that whenever I try to sell
my faulty jokes,
you will eagerly buy.
And tiresome sighs
just add to our dryness.
To be named after a saint,
but Paul you aint
because the life you paint
is a colourful one indeed.
What will you make of this poem?
Probably an impatient groan,
but I hope you’ll find it’s grown
on you in a few years time.
Whilst the flow of wine
lets us pour thoughts
over many memories that have
made us what we are.


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