Blind Date

If we were to arrange to meet, one afternoon

under a station clock,

you would recognise me by my Come-to-bed eyes,

my Get-a-load-of-this-baby nose,

my Right-you–knickers-off-now mouth,

my Hey-pretty-lady-you-wan’-jig-a-jig? moustache,

and my Why- Contessa – you-appear-to-be-wearing-nothing-but-my-finest-cologne earlobes.

And, just in case, the crimson carnation pinned to my anorak.