If we were to arrange to meet, one afternoon
under a station clock,
you would recognise me by my Come-to-bed eyes,
my Get-a-load-of-this-baby nose,
my Right-you–knickers-off-now mouth,
my Hey-pretty-lady-you-wan’-jig-a-jig? moustache,
and my Why- Contessa – you-appear-to-be-wearing-nothing-but-my-finest-cologne earlobes.
And, just in case, the crimson carnation pinned to my anorak.

The start of this poem gave me trepidations,
But it wasn't the trains or the crimson carnations,
That almost caused my heart to stop.
It was the line that might follow the one with the clock.

Thank goodness!
It's one of those poems that don't rhyme.
Oh what a relief! Exquisite, sublime.
Then, as the heartbeat, subsides in my ticker,
He has to bring up the plural of knicker.

The poet seems charming and full of panache,
Especially when mentioning his jig-a-jig moustache.
But his anorak, (The uniform of the train spotter)
Singles him out as a bit of a nutter.

Let's face it; He's not here to meet a young maiden,
The timetable says that the train to Newhaven
Is leaving at half past from platform 4B.
And the girl by the clock
Would just spoil his daft hobby.

Thanks for taking the time
To compose a little rhyme
Even though it doesn’t

I’m not sure I concur
with what you have concluded
He isn’t quite as sad as that
He’s just a little deluded.

No, not a nutter neath nasty anorak
But a tender trainspotter in love with the track.
Adorned with carnation, he's a damn dapper dresser
And enough of a charmer to pull a Contessa!