You like stick insects, you go on holiday to Wales, and you have three cats all named Smiffy. But that doesn’t make you a poet. It makes you almost embarrassingly beautiful to behold, but there’s more to rhyming than your supremely attractive toes and your delicate nostrils.
I say this – take your blue shoes, and run to the nearest novelist to ask for a job. Because poetry is not your gig, no sirree Bob.
One last thing – is that a wig?