Wednesday, 11 May 2011

The Tail Is Wagging The Dog

There was a silhouette,
On her chest,
And we unwound almost,
Her south of Bilbao,
And me in dear dirty Dublin,
But almost as predicted,
By my eager offering,
You decided I'd probably,
Take your heart and throw it,
Against a shop front window with handless
Mannequins, and lure you,
Into a faithful relationship,
Where you’d become tied up in knots,
At an ironing board,
And a sink, while I burped,
Commands and forced you,
Into going against GODS wishes.

Women, have this unfortunate gift,
Where they know what foot,
You’ll put forward, before you do,
And when they’re smart enough,
Or maybe they’ve suffered as much
As they can, they pick up on gestures and
Body language, and calculate whether it’ll be worth
The hassle, of letting some fuckhead,
Show 'em around a city, or have a bite,
With a desperate knowledge, that she can chow
As much as she wants, and he’ll be paying.

Not ‘cause he thinks she’ll bone him or
Suck his joint in a hip bar's restroom,
But because of decency
And keeping up with passed on and traditional chivalry.

And all the things she misconstrues
As signs, pointing to his money or agenda
Somehow equate,
To her as he wants her,
Pulling apart her asscheeks,
Or making the mussed bed

And that’s just feminist brainwashing,
Stupid, diseased, half formed, ideas.

They reject the willing man.

The one who’d stroll the Seine,
And sip vin chaud on the left bank in Winter.

The one who would walk them to the bus stop,
And be excited by a quick tongue-lashing,
Before the doors closed.

For a more predictable cunt.

A wild, faithless, wife beater,
With a well paying ,stable job, who harbours,
No arty desires.

Who is self contained with
Television, and the same set of friends,
Since his puberty.

And then as they change nappies
And pick up dry cleaning,
They think back to that one
Shifty looking bug eyed
Gimp with the notebooks
And the pockmarks,
With the inebriated gait

And wonder

Who did he marry?

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