A brisk twenty-minute walk everyday,
Means you are up to eighty percent less likely to die early from coronary heart disease,
diabetes or cancer.
If you stay at home snuggled all comely and lovely and very becomingly sultry
in your TV dinner chair,
Avidly reading my poems,
You are, excitingly, one-hundred percent less likely
to be killed by a vicious pavement cyclist,
Meaning you won't die early either;
You'll probably die late,
Which is better than never.
Or is it?
I think your choice here is..
There are no guarantees in life.
But that's your choice,
Which is no choice,
And your only guarantee.
Look, it's quite possible a really vicious pavement cyclist might even appear an unbidden subject of my graphomania,
But would this be your choice?
If a vicious pavement cyclist rides unbidden on one of my free verse spaghetti motorways,
Please don't worry;
They'll probably be immersed into the depravity:
The vicious pavement cyclist might awaken in my Poe-like dreamworld
Himalayan flesh-pot-deep in empty and meaningless sex with the Yeti,
Which according to nature programmes
is the worst kind of empty climactic sex you can have with the Yeti.
(I obviously wouldn't know, having never done that kind of thing.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)
Or the vicious pavement cyclist, Camp X-Ray style,
Might be force-fed a lobster through their nose via a pair of tights -
A disturbingly unwashed pair of tights previously worn by
celebrated and legendary t
Or the vicious pavement cyclist could be gently encouraged, inverted commas,
to sing a Coldplay song backwards
while bathing in a jacuzzi of porcupines who are all in a really bad mood.
(That's the porcupines, not Coldplay)..
Or the vicious pavement cyclist might end up in a forced marriage
with a bidden, totally bidden, squeezed and empty bottle of tomato ketchup..
And no ordinary squeezed and empty bottle of bidden tomato ketchup either.
No, not that kind,
But a squeezed and empty bottle of bidden tomato ketchup with a terrifying superiority complex,
A passive aggressive personality,
And a not entirely healthy interest in grandmothers who smother themselves
in living Anunnaki jam,
Then dress up as pirates to ambush and kidnap naturists astir in the woods attacking carbon dioxide and Cliff Richard songs, Softsoftloud,
As if Cliff Richard is in Mogwai,
Which he isn't, never has been.
No, there's nothing wrong with Mogwai,
But there's definitely something wrong with Cliff Richard being in Mogwai.
But not as wrong as, say,
Mogwai being in Cliff Richard, unbiddenish, Softsoftloud or otherwise.
Or is it?