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‘Time Out’s Comedy editor Ben Williams asked me to write a poem that people could personalise for themselves, which I – as a poet – thought was an affront. I did it, though. I don’t think people will really enjoy it or think it’s that personal, and because of my struggles to personalise it, I feel the rhythm is a bit screwed. Add in the fact that Time Out has a big readership, and this is a disaster.’ Tim Key, 2014
Chris/Anne/Luther/Candice/a flamingo/someone else/I/Warren/your own name/Liz decided to gather some onions.
He/she/it/was fed up with his/her/its damn boss/pupils/workload/long thin legs/wife/situation.
She/it/I/the flamingo took a cab down to the fields and put on their onion gloves.
In front of Chris/Anne/this person/the flamingo/whoever/Annabel there was a gigantic field that rolled away between the hills and down towards the pea-green lake approximately 1.5 miles away.
Chris/Louise/Max/a Swedish guy/Sandra/a different flamingo/Keith/no one/you/me/it doesn’t matter/Diane waded into the onions.
It was raining.
The person/bird filled their bucket and the water soaked their jumper/feathers through.
Sodden and shivering, the flamingos/Chris and Anne/you/insert your name/Paul Scholes/Chris stood by their/his/its onion bucket and attempted to hail cabs.
They would not stop, though. All of the cabs drove right past you/_______ .
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