God, how I love you.
Your lazy lips, and hazy eyes. Your hungry hips and desperate heart. The ten toes we named after the emperors of Rome; the seven hills of your form - nose, chin, nipple, navel, mons, knee and Julius Caesar. The laugh you scatter like crumbs to crows, the smile you promise but never deliver.
Yes, I love you, baby. And not just me.
No, you have suitors aplenty - alas, too many of them unsuited. Unclothed. Undressed. Under and over my dearest love while I have lain awake, awaiting you. The dutiful, trusting butler of love.
Only now do I know the truth, baby. I was baptised in petrol and set ablaze to light the way for your other idolaters who, slavering lasciviously, made their way, Indian file, to you. Who can blame them? You are beautiful. Every velvet-tongued kiss you bestow is worth the journey.
Yes, I love you, baby, gormless, formless whining windbag that you have made me. I have worshipped at your altar and you have pissed in my font and it still seems a blessing - well disguised mind you - when you come for Sunday Service.