Who? Him...I mean... me?
Holed-up, just outside a toilet
in the Killam, eyes to the sky:
Pen Inking Jeans.
Never thought you might be some
forty-six (46!) year-old harlot.
Who? You, with the big bust, the
side saddle spare tyre. Greys?
Not-so-many. Oh, a lusting wretch,
penning a column, ogling a Podcast, the power?
The Power, oh the poivre.
She...ummm..(notes-to-self) On the alert?
And... children? No ball to throw.
(Thinking) I can refuse this knavish man.
Send him a scribble from, say, Maury, after
careful consideration: sign it!
Yes, you must sign the damned thing.
But what to say: P.S. Maury? Oh Dear.