To all the poems that I forgot,

(and trust me, that is quite a lot);

that formed within my leaky head,

dripped out and then were left for dead;

that scratched upon my etch-a-sketch,

were shook before a pen was fetched;

that laughed in their creator’s face,

when PC froze in time and space;

that drooled upon my sleeping pillow,

dried to leave a stain in yellow;

that left my head by pure osmosis,

killing brain cells in the process;

that came with passion unassuaged,

whilst I was otherwise engaged;

I wonder why I give a jot,

for all the poems that I forgot;

but I love them all.

Oli 12/09/07