To be a gentleman in a Chatroom,
One must always introduce themselves as a number.
As an age.
To inform the fine maidens of the Chatroom that,
'Yes! I am legal.'
So that way they feel obliged to tell you:
'Why, I am too!'

You must also accompany such a number with your gender.
Just so that they won't get confused,
And know that you are a
masculine
manly man
of manliness.

It is of the Gentleman's Etiquette to note your existence afterwards.
A simple 'Here' would suit.
Or spice it up with a
'You?'
Afterwards.

Make sure you always ask how your possible future **** partner is feeling, it's only polite. If they say
'I'm feeling wonderful, how about you?'
or
'My day's been ghastly. How about yours?'
- No matter what the answer, make sure to reply with a steady:
'Nothing much', or if you're feeling impatient, 'nm'
Just to show that no, you don't really care
and want to get straight into business.

- Which shows that you are a man with a clear goal in mind, and as we all know, women adore men with confidence!

The next step is the bargain.
You need to sell yourself to the feline with flair,
Ferocity,
Wit, style, charisma.

'Wanna ****?'

And if they reject your courteous advances, all you can do is tip your hat and carry on to the next lady in waiting.

1
a singer — he want to go to the moon
and I pinned on his head. he wants
to sing with all the heavenly body
and allege about love to his lover

2
another singer who like to dance
also pinned me on his head. he walks
like a moon — hard to tell the contrast
of black and white from a cubit

3
and again, a singer. I am as cursed
too lazy to go everywhere — to like forever
I want to be pinned on his head — sing along
and dance from a stage to another

4
and I am —
they'll refuse me
if I'm not me
: but do not

Straight outta Ex Dee,
Crazy mother f@cker named Blatchy
Dropping sick beats, rolling hard in the backstreets,
Watch him roll dough as he hailin' a taxi,
Fancy f@cken suit, he's livin' in luxury

Fedora tipped-top on the tippy-top head
Gunning bad gangstas, better red than dead
Shooting spree, smilin' with glee
Don't wanna f@ck with a guy straight outta Ex Dee!

He was the only guy I met
Who wore a genuine fedora
And for all he struck a figure
He turned out to be a horror.
He was Satan with a swagger
A thin cheroot hanging in his lip.
He got into every nightclub free
I never saw him leave a tip.

His voice was like his words,
Smooth and slick and few.
When he talked everyone listened.
It seemed the proper thing to do.
But later when you remembered
It seemed he didn’t say much at all.
You just remembered his affect
His posture and that he was tall.

I don’t mean to imply he was a loner;
He had his choice of friendly fare.
And, it seemed the were both genders
So, there were lots of us out there.
We entertained, or at least we tried,
Just to keep him where we were.
And throughout the evening’s fun
Competition is what we all were.

So, we flirted and we flattered him
And we kept his cigarettes well lit.
Once in a while one of the silliest
Of our sycophantic group threw a fit.
Most of the time we stuck to our goal;
Some girl went nuts we’d ignore her.
For some mad reason all we thought
Was to please the man in the fedora.


I never heard anyone talk of him
And mention his accent or race.
In fact nobody seemed to be able
To remember aspects of his face.
And he never seemed to walk away
He just faded back into the flora.
He was like a will-of-the-wisp;
A Flying Dutchman in a fedora.