I almost killed you
pushing you through the glass door,
and then I've tried to frame you
every time I committed mischief.

Trust that whenever I try to sell
my faulty jokes,
you will eagerly buy,
and tiresome sighs
just add to our dryness.

You were to be named after a saint,
but a Paul you aint,
because the life you paint
is a colourful one indeed.

So Jonathan it was.
Too long for most days,
and Jonny is what you get.
Much to mum's disgruntlement
you love the Cash,
and so Rotten you can be -
never a priority of yours
to make the girls gush.

What will you make of this poem?
Probably an impatient groan,
but I hope you'll find it's grown
on you in a few years time,
as the flow of wine
lets us pour thoughts
over many memories that have
made us what we are.