A while back, I was buying a few beers in a supermarket to enjoy with friends but stupidly used the self service machine. They’re an absolute nightmare. Inevitably, a little red light started flashing and a voice told me very sternly that my purchase needed authorisation. A staff member wandered over and looked at me.
‘You know you have to be 18 to buy alcohol don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I replied baffled, ‘I am over 18!’ She didn’t look like she believed me. I showed her my passport. Having stared at it for a while she looked back up at me with a scowl and barked ‘You look awfully young!’
I’ll confess to being a bit confused. Here I was, presenting valid ID but being shouted at because I looked too young. I mumbled a ‘Thank you’, paid for the drinks and left. I have continually pondered this occasion since though. What did she want me to say? Did she want me recommend a beauty treatment? I don’t know. This poem is from the perspective of someone who has a similar experience but has maintained their youthful looks through sinister means, or so he claims.
She gazed at my passport and said
(Suspicion in her voice)
‘You look awfully young!’
As if I had a choice
Then with a cheeky snigger
I said, to her surprise
I drink the blood of virgins
And I always moisturise