Randy

Randy thoughts bloom like summer roses,
A flush of daring in the cheek’s soft rose‑hue,
Whispers flutter past the loo’s cracked tiles,
Where mischief lingers in the scent of tea.

He treads the flat with a grin that tugs at seams,
Footsteps light upon the creaky floorboard,
Eyes alight with the spark of forbidden jest,
Heart beating a lively, irreverent jig.

In the pub’s warm glow, he raises a pint,
Laughter spilling like spilled malt over the bar,
Words tumble, saucy as a scone with clotted cream,
Yet tempered by the politeness of a nod.

Randy not in spite, but in the spirit of fun,
A British romp where propriety takes a holiday,
And the world, for a moment, feels delightfully bold—
A cheeky wink, a blush, a joyous, unrestrained play.