Look Who's Stalking

A portable phone's an indispensible tool,
For the irrepressible talker,
For the far-away gossip, the admiring fool,
Or, of course, my insomniac stalker.

Her late night confessions and nocturnal desires,
Were whispered in bursts of invective,
She said she had surgical bone cutting pliers,
Which she felt were by far most effective.

For snipping through tendons or snapping off fingers,
Or pulling the skin from her quarry,
Oh terrible fear! How the menace still lingers,
How to pick up the phone made me sorry.

She threatened me nightly with evisceration,
She'd tear me to ribbons, she'd boasted,
Or with petrol she'd cause a vast conflagration,
'Til I was well and properly roasted.

But then over the years the calls kept on coming,
And my person remained quite unscathed,
Most trouble I had was the sound of the plumbing,
Which made clanking sounds each time that I bathed.

Each night as I sat and impatiently waited,
For the heartening bleep of my phone,
I realised, despite the threats unabated,
That her calls kept me from being alone.

And clever old me, for I recorded her number,
So I'll never have to be lonely,
For now I can call her, wake her from her slumber,
To tell her that she's my one and only.

All I have to do next is find out where she works,
Where she lives and likes to go walking,
For she's not the only one who hides, creeps and lurks,
And for her, yes just her, I'll go stalking.