Who's the girl you saw on the beach?

Is she the girl for you?

The backs of her knees are marked with an H,

her breasts are a W.

​

You've taken her to a hot, bright dance,

to the cold cliffs in the rain.

You've laid your arm on her shoulders

and taken it off again.

​

You talked over coffee and biscuits,

you talked over cakes and tea,

and both of you knew you were going to do

what the cuttlefish do in the sea.

​

They have a faceful of feelers,

which gives them a worried air,

and their bodies are bags of ocean,

with a skirt all round to steer.

​

They know how to change colour,

and they know how to make love.

The female trembles underneath,

the male trembles above.

​

He's passed her a gobbet of pearl drops,

she's glued her eggs to a weed.

They swam off side by side and quietly died,

having planted the cuttlefish seed.

​

And you know that if you have to

there's a quiet hotel you can go,

where you can tremble on top of her

and she can tremble below.

​

She has a W and an H

and a Y between her legs.

When you've read it all night you may answer it right -

you do it because of the eggs.

​

If you really really had to,

you would do it till you were both dead -

leave the embryo, like the cuttlefish do,

glued to the foot of the bed.

​