After my last poem, for Calin, I was awarded a badge, ‘Community poet’ which is lovely, and I’m very grateful and still smiling about it. Anyway, I thought about what that means, and decided that an occasional poem might be okay. Also putting them in their own forum would be less annoying to people not into poetry or my silliness.
So I went through my oeuvre to see if there was anything suitable and found this one, which I’ve slightly edited here to remove regional British dialect and help out any translation. It’s not VH related directly, but hopefully it’ll raise a smile anyway. I’ll try to come up with VH related stuff when inspiration strikes me.
(*note to those who aren’t familiar with British high streets, Austin Reed is a gentlemen’s outfitter. happy to help out with anything else unfamiliar.) 
TROWSER BROWSER
Sylvia Jefferson, (there’s a surprise),
had quite a thing for gentlemen’s flies.
She’d taken the knack on a day trip to Blenheim
with Dave, who was partial to indigo denim.
Next there was Geoff, in drip-dry nylon,
riskily under an electric pylon.
Then there was Harvey in Harris tweed,
(Surprisingly that was in Austin Reed,
though he was the manager with all the keys,
they were there after-hours, it was all done with ease.
She said, if chaps stood for a little adventure
she’d sweeten the deal and take out both her dentures).
There was Norman, he who preferred cotton twill.
And bafflingly, Laura in cheap chenille.
(A change is as good as a rest they say,
I didn’t think Sylvia swung that way.
Perhaps it was just a whistle-stop,
a tranny in stuff from a charity shop).
She had an encounter with Sundip, in silk,
though apparently he’d just nipped out for some milk.
There was Roger in biker’s protective leathers,
she was not impressed with his sub-par nethers.
Then there was Simon in canvas shorts,
on him she did not really have any thoughts.
Angus wore tartan of Clan McDougal
and bored her with with ways in which to be frugal.
Magnus would greet her in jumbo cords,
he smelled just a bit like Norwegian fjords.
She often met Jim in his crumpled linen,
all flustered and worried he may be sinning.
Once she met Harold who favoured wool,
unemployed, though he called it ‘a lull’.
There was also Horst in threadbare flannels,
his trousers were mended with mismatched panels.
She also made mention of ‘gabardine’,
she’d coded his name, he was just sixteen.
And few would have known that at sixty-four
she’d spent half her life on her knees, on the floor,
but quite how I know this I ought to explain;
I’m reading the diaries she left on the train … 
(sorry but I just HAD to ask)