Valentines is for sukkers

I wouldn’t thank you for a Valentine.

I won't wake up early wondering if the postman’s been.

Should 10 red-padded satin hearts arrive with sticky

sickly saccharine

Sentiments in very vulgar verses I wouldn’t wonder if

you meant them.

Two dozen anonymous Interflora red roses?

I’d not bother to swither over who sent them!

I wouldn’t thank you for a Valentine.

Scrawl SWALK across the envelope

I’d just say ‘ Same Auld story

I canny be bothered deciphering it –

I’m up to hear with Amore!

The whole Valentine’s Day Thing is trivial and

commercial,

A cue for unleashing clichés and candyheart motifs to

which I personally am not partial.’

Take more than singing Telegrams, or pints of

Chanel Five, or sweets,

To get me ordering oysters or ironing my black satin sheets.

I wouldn’t thank you for a Valentine.

If you sent me a solitaire and promises solemn,

Took out an ad in the Guardian Personal Column

Saying something very soppy such as ‘Who Loves Ya,

Poo?

I’ll tell you, I do, Fozzy bear, that’s who!’

You’d entirely fail to charm me, in fact I’d detest it

I wouldn’t be eighteen again for anything, I’m glad I’m

past it.

I wouldn’t thank you for a Valentine.

If you sent me a single orchid, or a pair of Janet Reger’s

in a heart-shaped box and declared your Love Eternal

I’d say I’d rather not be caught dead in them they were

politically suspect and I’d rather something thermal.

If you hired a plane and blazed our love in a banner

across the skies;

If you bought me something flimsy in a flatteringly

wrong size;

If you sent me a postcard with three Xs and told me

how you felt



I wouldn’t thank you, I’d melt.

By Liz Lochhead