Bridget Jones’s Diary II (2004)
Again. Do it, again. Ask it again. I do again.

Like a virgin, like holiday, like lucky stars,

like you just asked me, ski mini break?

Like the hills are alive with the sound

of Colin Firth clearing his throat. 
Because this is Bridget Jones’s Diary again,

only at 6000ft with room for a view

of your folded underwear, of Britain at breakfast,

of everything in miniature – frankfurters and all. 
Only with the Law Society and dinner,

Only with the real Slim Torrey Horatio,

Only with Hugh Grant back from space,

the unmapped gap between Germany and his own arsehole;

all that room between legs up to here,

the white space on a great graph and owning half of Australia. 
He’s doing it in Rome as the Romans do;

He’s the Big Juicy Apple, all pussy and ping pong balls

while you and me we’ve got a problematic thing:

you love me but even the quiche is quarter size.

I love you but that’s not my coat.

I say mit baby; you say charades in the Alps.

You say Eton. I say Noah. No. River.

He says, Jones, I never tease about poetry,

aren’t there second chances in Phuket? 
You say: your sex life does not concern me

like a virgin, like holiday, like lucky stars.
I say: here I am naked as our baby,

bearing men from Mars and wunderbras. 
He says: seen one naughty star seen them fucking all. 
You say you’ll drown him in 16 inches.

I say every look I gave you a lie.

You say, no the moment’s gone.

I say you say “Bridget Jones, will you marry me?!?”

I say, no music nor snow,

I do again (this time in lavender).