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People rarely tell you exactly what they think about something you have created. Brutal honesty can hurt. Being a pseudo masochist, I pretend to like the pain of honest criticism.

A sophisticated colleague commented on one of my odes (inuendo) which is a touch racey. I lean towards racey at times, although bawdy is not yet in my repertoire.

I am keen to find out if anyone likes the mussels poem that I submitted for the festival to be held in Connemara.

I like a man with mussels said Molly to the crowd.
He’s a regular fishmonger and his mussels make him proud.
He wouldn’t try to flex them, or pump them up for show.
With any type of shellfish, that’s not the way to go.
He’ll tell you how to cook them; it doesn’t take much time.
Add garlic, wine and Irish cream, the taste will be sublime.

I like a man with mussels who is open and exciting.
I find the stock he harbours sleek and so inviting,
And if you steam the molluscs to open up their shells
A wave of ocean freshness permeates the smells.
Pluck mussels with your fingers and savour them with wine;
Dip bread into the serving bowl, the perfect way to dine.

 

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