Today you experienced, for the first time...
Pins and needles.
In just one leg.
You didn't know what to explain -
Numbness is a hell of a concept to grasp for a young mind -
You could only stand lopsidedly,
Wanting to laugh out of panic,
Shooing away invisible electric bees.

But you're only three,
And it's a weird sensation,
That you'll never get used to.
Still, it was pretty funny,
Knowing you were fine
Watching you try to process a strange sensation
That always disappears eventually,
Leaving you to wonder, "what just happened?"

Double beds are a bad idea.
Everyone knows familiarity breeds contempt,
But not everyone realises that double beds breed contempt AND children.
Yes, I do believe in a single bed policy.
Double beds for married folk is a total fallacy.

Do we really need double beds?
They're all elbows and knees and farts.
Why can't we sleep apart?
Meet up in the morning and smugly tell each other how well you slept.
Maybe arrange to have a twenty minute cuddle in a neutral bed.

See, no double bed no sleepless nights.
No simmering hostility because of a careless knee,
No cold war because of cold feet,
No lifelong bitterness because of blanket stealing.
And no ill-feeling because "you're taking more space than me!"

Don't get me wrong, the trip was a blast.
I loved the chatter and drinking,
The joking and the mishaps were hilarious.
Did I mention the drinking?

The heel snapping off your "good expensive" new shoe was a hoot,
As was the train letting everyone off but you!
Did I mention the drinking?

But when I get home something odd occurs,
A completely baseless melancholy descends,
Joined by a stubborn belly ache.
Was it all the drinking?

I am very lucky, I do not suffer with depression,
But I've noticed a pattern,
And diagnose the post-session blues.
It must be the drinking.

Such happy childhood memories,
Of the sweats you made and sold,
All those wholesome confectionaries,
Reminding us of times of old.

Your staff members, young and old,
So happy to work overtime,
Never revolted or ever became bold;
To do so would have been a crime.

But, like my wasteline, you have expanded,
You have factories in many nations.
My childhood you may have branded,
But I love you without hesitation.

I do so miss the sweat smell,
That poured from the old factory,
That dominated the town in which I dwell.
When will you come back to me?

Those lucky people on shores afar,
Who work all day and night,
Making those millions of sweat chocolate bars;
Their grateful sweat and tears ALL go into your delights.

Now I hear that you are diversifying;
The clothing industry in those developing nations,
Will add to your sweat bottom line,
Perpetuating your sweat *******.

Crap! Have I been spelling 'sweet' as 'sweat' throughout this **** poem?

"Let us rock" said the man in a frock.

"Let us pray" said another man in a frock.

The congregation replied "**** YEAH!" and gesticulated like they did not care.

The other congregation bowed their heads to show their reverence and care.

"MOTHER *******!" was the first man in a frock's opening line.

"Our Father" was the other man in a frock's first whispered words.

The congregation went wild and they pogoed out of sheer joy.

The other congregation remained fixed in their seats, staring at feet.

Four hours passed until the man in the frock finished his slot.

The other man in the frock was done within the hour.

The man in the frock went backstage and partied with his flock.

The other man in the frock went home to **** his socks.

The man in the frock woke up the next afternoon no longer wearing his frock.

The other man in the frock had been up since six o'clock but had nowhere to go.

The man no longer wearing the frock picked up his phone and made a call.

The other man in the frock rushed to his phone for it rarely rang.

"Hello dad" said the man who had worn the frock.

"Hello son" said the man still wearing the frock.