Disclaimer: AAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, he's dead, I'm so sad! But, he owns them for another 46 years.
A/N: This is a poem for Arthur from Ford, in the style of a Vogon.
Sometimes I look at you and feel like I've been punched in the stomach. Oh! Lomach? Stomach!
Every now and then, you look really sad.
That's really bad.
Once your two – headed rival said that you were not homosexual at all, and I cried. Oh, cried? Pied!
But, you make me feel as though I'm flying. Flying is hard, so I know that I must really love you. Oh! You! No – one else. Not even him.
Your skin is pale and delicate (flericate) but your hair is either brown or black. Browack?
When you move your lips, you make me feel sick, but in a nice way. I know you'd be sad to think that you'd made anyone sick in a sick way. But your lips look so soft that I want to lick them and then shag you.
Oftentimes, you make me think that being on the Earth was really good.
I think you have a beautiful body, but you never seem to notice. You never wear tight clothes or walk sexily. I wish you would. Oh, mish! Oh, wish?
Please please say you love me!