A Confessional

A confessional

Each week her column
I would find,
My housemates’ weekends
That way inclined.

I used to read her
Ghost-writ fiction,
Of Polo pricks
In horsey diction.

I'd have given all,
To to take the place,
Of Sir fucking
Toss-pot what's-his-face
And take the arm
Of such a beauty,
At the glittering ball
On
A-hole-list duty.

Against the grain,
All this lust.
I'm quite ashame,
To have felt as such.
For she was them
And me was us.
It makes us sick,
I feel disgust,
To think back then,
That for a while,
This willowy woman,
She did beguile.

Call me Judas.
A traitor, if fit,
I was young and daft,
She was definitely ‘It’

We could have had
Such great potential
(Minus clobber and
left-wing credentials).

So shoot me down
It's for the best,
But before I die
I must confess
Past feelings,
Of lust
Now,
Rather sinking ones.
For
Tara
Palmer-
Tomkinson.