Thank you for your letter.
Yes, I can do much better, but I have a bad cold, and I’m feeling quite old. So, of course, I sound a little hoarse. I’m sure you would, too, were you in my shoe.
Now, because I can’t sing, I’m doing this thing; penning this ditty whilst trying to be witty – acting like a dolt. But it’s all your fault!
You took the wind from my sails, yet the breeze prevails. It’s lashing at the curtains and I’m fairly certain you’re to blame – playing your draughty game. As I lie in my bed, you’re messing with my head. Your blades are swishing and I? I’m wishing you’d stop before I pop.
I press your button. This isn’t a put on! You’re broken, and unspoken you whirl faster and faster and before I pass the point of no return, before you burn out, I reach out and take pains to turn you off at the mains.
The air is still and calm; I’ve come to no real harm. And tomorrow, with little sorrow, I’ll sling you in the bin.
With the warmest of regards,