She carries it, though under cover,
a secret weapon for a lover
who dares defy her even once,
it’s no excuse to be a dunce.
I have been chosen so it seems,
though never in my wildest dreams
did I expect this sly attack
which was prepared behind my back.
You see, to tell the real story,
the saga started with a sorry
but unbeknownst to me entré,
presented as a joyful play.
There lived, in cloudy inner city
a middle aged and rather pretty
and intellectual grandmother
who had been searching for another,
a better purpose in her life.
The task of playing the good wife
and caring for rambunctious kids
did drive her to consider bids
elsewhere in regions of the globe.
While sitting in her purple robe,
she’d dream of knights without a flaw
and then, on the TV she saw
how history had proven often
that free-verse thoughts would help to soften
society’s ingrained conventions,
and slowly ripened her intentions.
God, thank thee for the internet,
where countless lonely hearts have met.
She surfed in all the continents
from Adelaide to Arab tents.
And found, (she was articulate) ,
a hopeful one who, old but fit
was quite intrigued by her Hello,
but too naive for any pro.
And now, my friends, this poet skips
four stanzas (sealed must be my lips)
it seems that she did want a toy
to be converted to a boy
without the right to pick and choose
and somewhat big for his own shoes,
she needed in her midlife crisis
not booze or other neat devices
but human flesh in all its glamour,
(and may I use the word ‘enamour’) ,
so, with her woman’s intuition
consolidated her position.
The only fly in this sweet ointment,
which led to bitter disappointment
was that no man, unless deranged
appreciates if an estranged
no matter how erotic soul
attempts to press him in a role
where he must don the leather gear
and, kneeling, mumble ‘May I, dear? ‘
So, programmed for a premature
resounding failure, all the lure
collapsed in waves of turbulence,
there was the thought of ‘staying friends’
but that was not at all to be,
so now the fly, with glee, broke free,
and left the spider’s sticky net
still wondering why they had met.
And silence now descended gladly
upon the two, though, rather sadly
were days at first, though they prevailed
it was quite clear that they had failed
an undertaking which was wrong,
as only those who, cold and strong
will contemplate and carry through
since they have nothing else to do.
But let me, just for a small second
digress from what the target reckoned,
a friend of mine is youngster lightning
his mother’s who is somewhat fright’ning
is wise beyond our wildest dreams,
and sees a thing for what it seems
her name is, fittingly, Dame Thunder
and she did look at this sad blunder
perhaps she is the one behind
this new attack upon the mind
All men have, it is known, a horn
to ward off any woman’s scorn
So bring it on, use your resources
of darkness and malignant forces
a dream that roses will adorn
is what I want, not woman’s scorn.