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Paul Waring

I Marry Tony Soprano


in my sleep, call him Toto, though we meet nowhere

near the yellow brick road – Hadley’s chip shop Whitby,

in fact; rat-arsed eyes fused across a queue.


Says he swapped the Mafia for Morris dancing. Shows

some moves – outfit a touch snug, but butterfly light

on clogged feet. More British than Madonna


after a few Black Sheep. Swears he never misses

Carmela, New Jersey or the Mob since his addiction

to Plough Stot and Long Sword.


Turns out he’s minted. Promises round-the-world

air balloon rides, penthouse in Castle Howard, Betty’s

platinum card; makes an offer I can’t refuse.