I have fallen head-over-heels in love with an idiot boy whose name I choose not to utter. He smells of felt-tip pens and cheap cigarettes and has recently emerged from the gutter.
'Oh Idiot Boy,' I joyfully cry, 'just look what you have achieved'. But Idiot Boy cannot see what I see, and simply refuses to believe.
'Oh Idiot boy,' I joyfully cry, 'every part of your life has been planned'.
'Flip off' says he, with a pen in his hand, drawing things that ought to be banned