The Plan


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A warm offering from Esme for V-day, one which has some elements of the following within: Everyone should have the pleasure of a true fan, ideally several hundred, but even one can make the difference between creation and stagnation, and if you’re lucky, they’ll also be a fan of your own offerings in return. You love my wordage — in essence scratch my back — and as a quid pro quo I tickle your toes/covert your knees/laud and applaud all freckles and weirdy beardies, including those with babies bums for chins. I’ll do that for any of your penning that delights, adding extra for soft shoe shuffling and the like –Nods– For mutual, and to be precise, genuine appreciation is a truly fine thing folks. Of all places, the blogosphere lends and bends itself nicely to that very theme. – Waves at the audience who look mildly confused but appreciate the effort, probably. —

The Plan

She said:
‘What’s the plan Stan?’

He said:
‘I’ll tell you if I can;
When I’m an old man
Eatin’ soup and Complan,
One grumblin’ literary antediluvian,
Face crumpled up like a crashed caravan,
Sittin’ in me wheelchair supping a Tennent’s Super can . . .

I still want you to be me number one fan.’

She said:
‘Here’s the thing Stan;
When you’re an old man,
I’ll also have a face like the back of a van,
More Christopher Biggins, less Gloria Estafan,
Soaking me dentures and suckin’ at me scran,
But I’ll always be the solo to your Han(d) . . .

Just so long as you’re still my number one fan.’

He said:
‘I may be a reticent sesquipedalian,
But I’ll always recall you on the velvet clad divan,
After high kickin’ your way through a crackin’ can can,
In that dodgy old joint named ‘The Moulin’,
Way back down the years, where it all began,
And you’ll evermore be empath to my muffled Vulcan . . .

So please, still be my number one fan.’

She said:
‘I’ll be writing wild reviews as only a true fan can,
Applaudin’ with glee my Drury Lane muffin man,
Swoonin’ and moonin’ at your moth-eaten cardigan,
A groupie and her groper — one covert shenanigan,
Two dodgy tickers aflame in bushes suburban,
A mutual attraction to which we are partisan . . .

Just so long as you’re grateful I’m your number one fan.’

He said:
‘My appreciation dear, is certainly gargantuan,
And I promise you this much — I’m gan nowhere man.
We’ll forever swap autographs in our saga leviathan,
One so boldly ambrosial we dance an ardent meridian;
You the geriatric Jane, to my wrinkly Tarzan fancy-man . . .

Because I need you to be my number one fan.’

She said:
‘Cut from the same cloth’ must be our slogan,
But bear in mind I might end up someone’s gran,
Teeth rattlin’ away in a jar dancin’ to Duran Duran,
The highlight of my week the aftermath of All Bran,
But I know I’ll still feel a thrill for your monkey and organ,
And l do love being the flash in your pan . . .

So I guess . . . yes,

I will always be your number one fan.

Sounds like a plan,