I've no desire for sexy fun
With a Rowntree's Walnut Whip

Dear Clint, you did, you promised
I'll remind you one last time
We agreed to talk of finer things
Like music, food and wine

I don't think we're compatible
We've have such differing lives
I was brought up Sunday Telegraph
And you're just Readers’ Wives.

I've stopped the e-mails coming
And I've notified the police
How dare you send me downloads
From a porno site in Greece

Why was I so misguided?
You're not a child of God
You're a cross-eyed, pervy slap-head, Clint
A disgusting little sod

Dear Clint, I've missed your letters
They were best when shocking blue
I want to correspond again
And I hope that you do too

  I haven't found that soulmate
It's not much fun on the shelf
So I'm up for a laugh and a roll in the sack
With a randy old dog like yourself

Darling Clint, it's fine for Sunday
We can meet by the Town Hall Clock
I've got the keys to a colleague's flat
She's spending the week in Bangkok

I'll be wearing those undies you sent me
The ones with the quick-release clip
So come all prepared with the cherry blancmange
And I'll bring the Walnut Whip.

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