Hey, how’s it going?

You’re looking good. There you are, drinking beer on a beach in Croatia. I went to that music festival too, the year before. Now you’re in a bikini, by the pool. Your midriff looks like a hardback book; you could bounce pennies off it, no ripples. You’re into horse riding I see. Jodphurs suit you, snug as an arse in a rug. But mainly you just like getting drunk. There you are with your friends at that club in central, that club in East, that club in central. Your arms are around your mates and your makeup runs downs your face, but you still look great. You’re surrounded by children at a Kenyan school. Stop singing kids, I can’t hear if you’re replying. Too busy in Thailand are you, pointing at a badly translated sign? Listen to me, I want you. Now you’re getting your A-level results. Jesus, I want to plug you. Stop performing in your school’s production of ‘Blood Brothers’ and look at what I’m waving at you. Stop going to barbecues with your family and notice me. Do you know what? Go fuck yourself. You’re too young for me.