"looker" poems
She is A Queen
She's something special, similar to a candy coated dream.
The God in her will sooth you soul as if you were Listening To the sound of the rushing river Streams
Her spirit Shines brighter than a car's high Beams.
Her love is sweeter than brown sugar
And Me oh my she is Looker
Her big chestnut sultry eyes reveals the beauty of Her soul inside.
I can just smell the aroma of her Shea butter and coconut fragranced skin as it glows due to her internal flame shinning within.
Cocoa Brown is the color of her melanated Bronze complexion.
Man, her smile drives me wild.
That luminous smile, her glorious smile, is as gorgeous as the clouds when she shows her pearly whites.
It brightens my day like a lamp in the darkness of the night.
And her mind Is a secret treasure That only her King Can discover and uncover the bountiful mountains he'll climb.
She's Artistic and Musically Inclined
And at the drop of a dime shell bust out in A poetic rhyme
And her words, Gosh her blissfully profoundly spoken words, will send chills up your spine
She's My own little personal ray of sunshine
Radiating truth and her words are so kind
She's simply divine
She's a peacemaker staying serene
From the inside out she is a beautiful Human being
She's good for your mental hygiene
Kinda like how your body needs protein.
Royalty is embedded in DNA gene
And her crown is made of lustrous flowing locks shining like oil sheen.
She is Royalty, She's My sister from another Mister, She is an Unshaken, Strong, melanized Beautiful Queen.
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 12:55 PM UTC
I've been telling my therapist about you.
I've been trying to sleep, yet all that fills my head is you and her.
You talking to her. A filthy wreck. I feel sorry for her.
Me working into the early hours of the morning, watching a sunrise on the long drive back, me wanting to get home to you.
You getting involved with her while I'm gone. You inviting her to the bar. Let me make you a drink.
You could be wiping her lipstick away before I return, erasing her taste from your lips. I bet it's disgusting.
I thought you hated dreadlocks.
I've been going over and over in my head if this is what I'm worth. I know I'm not a looker.. My hair is messy, my clothes are ripped, I'm all marked up from the past.
I thought my personality shone through that though.
Sometimes though, I guess that's not enough.
What hole do you need to fill? Please tell me.
Please, oh please tell me why you knocked me down. Why am I not enough.
I've been crying a little each day, then pulling it back together.
I've been trying to still be that stone wall I always am throughout this horrible pain.
I smell like cigarettes, you smell like lies.
I've been telling my therapist about you.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 11:06 AM UTC
By the 1960s, a disillusionment with Nationalism and war was permeating within the public consciousness.
Man: jazz. Jazz! Everything sounds like jazz when you lend your hears an oscilloscope. You know what j-a-z-z sounds like? Well, it’s sweet, serendipitous or nonsensical, nihilistic. Modern in stainless steel or anachronistic in brass. Jazz! So what? Jazz sounds like anything that’s everything and vice versa. It’s a limb of that omniscient looker up and over: the tune itself. Oh, the tune? It’s what lies between your fingers when you’re writing, forging, loving, giving, perishing. You strut with the frequency of a conduit, but an unaware one at that. A change is gonna come in mere years, I know that much. Everyone will be deloused in the pain of the world; Mother Sympathy for all, even the charlatans who hide behind their crimson fur! All I’m saying is, whoever brings it ought to be from this place. I can’t fathom a recalcitrant extraterrestrial handling our own business at the expense of their planet’s water supply. I’m excited for whatever comes, believe me. So long as it ends me and with me.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
Oh Ramen, Sweet as sugar
You shall fill my stomach with a myriad of tastes.
I am like putty because you’re my ******
Your enchanting dance at an unstoppable rate
Sip, slurp, and swallow
Everywhere you go I follow
I can’t help but be the cooker
Since you’re an amazing looker
You’re the heart inside my soul
seeing you every day is my goal
It is my heart that you stole.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 9:49 PM UTC
It was early fall,
the leaves were vibrant
when I crawled to the bar,
catch myself a weekend buzz.
Fred’s drinks were pure trouble,
more jet fuel than mixer.
I mean you could torch your breath
after just one sip.
Rock blared there like a live concert,
loud enough to make you a deaf mute
after just one drink.
The dark walls swirled,
moved in & out, carnival-like,
I purred-down
Jack-elixirs.
I first saw her shining
from across the Mahogany bar.
She was hidden in the shadows,
a real good looker.
Her amber hair was crazy,
blowing everywhere
like the bride of the stitched-man,
electrode-neck.
She might have been a ******
or a nose-candy queen,
but after what the bartender gave me,
it really didn’t matter,
life was played hard on the edge
in them days.
I was enthalled with her,
captivated by her lady-vibes,
she was the perfect last call.
We sang rock and roll songs
in my 455 rocket, crawled
the back roads,
looped
all the way
to my country-place.
We were on auto-pilot,
dropped our guards,
fell into each other’s embrace.
She smelled like salty-patchouli,
had a killer innocent-face,
kissed me with fire,
such strong desire,
a beautiful-wantonness.
Her eyes were so red & green,
indeed she was
the consummate,
the prettiest,
late-night dream girl.
She was bathed in bright ink,
the sun, the moon, the stars,
vividly scrawled on her back
along with a frowning-tiger.
Above her privacy, I spied
a smiling-gnome
with outstretched arms
screaming, “I Wuv You.”
I obliged him,
there was no fighting
her ***** to the wall demeanor.
We shook the planet,
frolicked way past the wee hours,
deep into the noon hour.
When the earth-shattering stopped,
I was hung over on her & the jp4.
We crashed still trashed,
I still don’t know
how I ever got her home.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
The slits of glass give way to light,
Which cuts through the air and sun leeched curtains.
It falls weightless on warming skin,
Breathing life into stillness.
A gentle caress, a sultry glance;
Statuesque, they cast shadows on the wall.
Shadows that illuminate and contour,
Express and entrance.
Longing rapture in eyes, incandescent and iridescent;
Loveless yet sensuous silken skin that tells of life well lived.
Your broken heart rests on shoulders, colored and vivid;
A world is painted in timeless elegance.
What horrors has she seen? Said the looker so enthused.
What grandness has passed her eye? Says another just as true.
Oh the colors so earthen tell of pleasures and sorrows, yet whisper of frailty.
They speak in tongues that can never be trusted, only pondered.
The intricate oil work from a badger’s fair coat,
Show delicate and smooth,
All the features of her roistering frame;
Passions of the heart now told by passions of the brush.
The life is still, but forever infinite.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:40 PM UTC
It became patently obvious to me, that
the more that I looked
the less I could see
and I looked a lot
because time's all I've got
but still couldn't see
what should have been obvious, to
the looker in me.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide. None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 1:01 PM UTC
When the chill of earth black-breasted is uplifted at the
glance
Of the red sun million-crested, and the forest blossoms
dance
With the light that stirs and lustres of the dawn, and with
the bloom
Of the wind’s cheek as it clusters from the hidden valley’s
gloom :
Then I walk in woodland spaces, musing on the solemn
ways
Of the immemorial places shut behind the starry rays
Of the East and all its splendour, of the West and all its peace;
And the stubborn lights grow tender, and the hard sounds
hush and cease.
In the wheel of heaven revolving, mysteries of death and
birth,
In the wonb of time dissolving, shape anew a heaven and
earth
Ever changing, ever growing, ever dwindling, ever dear,
Ever worth the passion glowing to distil a doubtful tear.
These are with me, these are of me, these approve me,
these obey,
Choose me, move me, fear me, love me, master of the
night and day.
These are real, these illusion : I am of them, false or frail,
True or lasting, all is fusion in the spirit’s shadow-veil,
Till the knowledge -Lotus flowering hides the world
beneath its stem;
Neither I, nor nor God life-showering, find a counterpart in
them.
As a spirit in a vision shows a countenance in fear,
Laughs the looker to derision, only comes to disappear,
Gods and mortals, mind and matter, in the glowing bud
dissever :
Vein from vein they rend and shatter, and are nothingness
for ever.
In the blessed, the enlightened, perfect eyes these visions
pass,
Pass and cease, poor shadows frightened,
leave no stain
upon the glass.
One last stroke, O heart- free master, one last certain
calm of will,
And the maker of Disaster shall be strcken and grow
still.
Burn thou to the core of matter, to the spirit’s utmost
flame,
Consciousness and sense to shatter, ruin sight and form
and name!
Shatter, lake-reflected spectre; lake, rise up in mist to
sun;
Sun, dissolve in showers of nectar, and the Master’s
work is done.
Nectar perfume gently stealing, masterful and sweet and
strong,
Cleanse the world with light of healing in the ancient
House of Wrong !
Free a million mortals on the wheel of
being
tossed !
Open wide the mystic portals, and be altogether lost!
2.3k
Don't squander loneliness.
Can be your greatest ally:
be an alien,
be a witness,
be an outsider,
an on looker,
just don't squander your loneliness-
your greatest ally against human trappings.
In fairness, she won't keep you warm at night.
Her icy whisper can make you dance.
Which in turn will keep you warm.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:51 AM UTC
I will do my damnedest to save you from harm
and wrap you safely up in lust
you who're only a luckless victim
a poor forsaken damsel in distress
tied to the railway tracks by a villain
in one of those black and white movies
I will arrive in the dramatic nick of time
and I shall be the hero who proves his love
when in return you kick me under the train
I'm really just vain and an incapable slave
so you relent and pull me back from the brink
I'll waste no time in rescuing you
your destiny's under my control
there's nothing you can do
no reason for you to get involved
except in relinquishing your body
yet what you do is to shelve
all my plans for today
I'm relieved you know yourself
I'll be there to deliver you from evil
the forces of love are far too weak
you have too much of it to lose to quibble
my advice is to stay put and not to seek
instead you jump into the moral saddle
urging it on so strong my heart goes meek
I repent and promise not to meddle
I'll take you in my arms and we'll escape
giving you a way out when all seems lost
picking up the pieces of your broken reality
what you need is for me to know what's best
to change you into a looker for me
I'm only glad you passed the test
with that sand I got kicked into my face
something you call leather and lace...
nice work... I secretly have to confess
You'll need me to give you a hand
when your slight frame gets knocked down
my assistance in perspective is what you need
the weights of love too great to be borne
I'd hate for yours to fatten and go to seed
and your strong love will feel no pain
when you yank me limb from limb to the ground
and ****** my salvation insanely thin
Rest assured I'll rid you of your past
that awful story of unspeakable depravity
it's easy for someone clean to dust
all traces erased of that shocking poverty
and I'll dress you anew as a lady to impress
forging history in return for a few liberties
but you tore my shoddy papers into a mess
a message that I needed you to fix me
what wasn't broken was you - I was
even more impressive love it's true
for you to sort out my lax assumptive ways
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
the brother was my age, not a looker. my parents were nervous and slicked his hair back lovingly. their hands touched. I had other presents but I was thinking about the blood in my body and about Stephen. Stephen was an across the street foster I for a summer could not separate from. his nose was constantly chapped because his parents found out he had no manners at the table and would have his older sister sneak up behind him and hood him with an empty feed bag. I went in with Stephen once saying his sister had called him a ******* and his parents liked me enough that they soaped her mouth in front of me then tied a string to her seemingly always loose front tooth and then tied the escaping end of the string to the **** of an open door and slammed it. because of this honesty Stephen and I were allowed to watch a movie where a white man and a savage pressed their wrists together after cutting them. the movie looked away from the cutting so we improvised. it didn’t make us any closer. the night Stephen ran away I didn’t wake up without having to piss. it was my dad found him days within the week making boxes a mile gone at a pizza shop because he said his name was Billy and would work for free.
I looked at the brother and couldn’t see it being so without my blood. but the brother pulled me to him anyway and I could feel in the heat of his elbows all the time he’d spent mourning the loss of Stephen.
Aug 25, 2012
Aug 25, 2012 at 2:02 AM UTC
"You're not confident. That's what makes you unattractive"
Well ********* I tried to be
But somehow confidence is not achievable with a big body
Did I have "low self esteem" written on my forehead?
What made you think it was okay for you to criticize me?
The love I had to give was endless
And it wasn't skin-deep like yours
I mean, it wouldn't have lasted if it was...
You weren't exactly a looker
I had a big heart, but maybe big hearts only come in big bodies
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC
He was last spotted
With his gnarled hands
making love to his pockets
maybe bearing a child
half palm
half cotton
Every so often
he’d flail the lint
from his fingernails
serrated from his spleen,
knot them up
into steely ***** of yarn
and batter the window
of his sister’s room
His knuckles may have suffered
some trauma
but it’s likely now
they speak in scars
with windbag bones
that don’t shut up
He isn’t a looker
His nose is large
and barbed
like wire
with currents
that breathe in pollen
he’s allergic to
He got inked last March
on his eighteenth
shrouding his flaxen leg hairs
in ****** red roses,
a wide mouthed skull
with an inverted cross
bludgeoning its left temple,
and the words
“Here’s to your destiny”
in all caps
He has a mop
of tow colored hair
and narrow eyes
either a robin’s egg
or air force blue
that I once piloted
He’s a well padded
five feet and nine inches
But I picture him
far rounder
You’ll never see him
well kempt
he smells of minced cattle
and marijuana
He could dissolve you
into laughter
even on unlit nights
when the moon
goes to the cleaners
and the stars
swish around
in the Laundromat
with your knickers
His grin was cloying
like syrup
until his teeth stuck together
in a wonted pout
Don’t keep your eyes peeled
You won’t find his face
on a milk carton
This boy isn’t really missing
He’s out there somewhere
studying chemistry
or law
But he isn’t here
to give me hell
anymore
So I picture his calf,
his immutable tattoo
whispering
“Here’s to your destiny”
and hope I still have one
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
She loves it
when we go fishing,
enjoys all of the activities,
spearing & angling,
gathering & netting,
anything to get
down on the shore.
Her boy in the boat
always bounces,
craves more of my dangling.
She's a looker,
baits my hook just right,
I don't fight her
& it ain't no shrimp.
Nooooo,
no wimp here,
I always use my big long pole
looking for her sweet fishing-hole.
When I finally get there,
find the right spot,
I scrape her scales
from every conceivable angle
to uncover her tasty pearl.
I give her a whirl,
shuck the shell out of her
as she squeezes me hard
with her tight mussel,
ready to receive my roe,
a splish,
a splash,
a huge shot
of my hot cocktail sauce,
curling her toes.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 10:13 PM UTC
Cryptic quotation offer shattered self-esteem
No solace for the personality flaws
Not quite the proclivity for annihilation
Yet, every stab at the paper breaks new teeth
Curious is the looker who looks through filtered eyes
Even still, there is no need to protest
An awkward moment of exaggeration
Or a sardonic belittling of subterfuge
Coordinated to change the sided nature of self
Crowned by the masses so intimately
But without a shred of deeper connection
And the line grows longer but no one knows why
Blind are bridge jumpers who love high numbers
Just like you never hear of lone sheep
Is everything so tragic…
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:10 PM UTC
She was quite the looker, her eyes a cold blue steel.
Her legs went on forever and that’s just part of her appeal.
He met her in a magazine, then in a glossy print.
He painted her, from Memory, on his plane and off they went.
She flew with him into battle. She was his lucky charm.
17 bombing missions they came thru without harm.
They flew over Hitler’s Germany way up high and cold.
They faced fearful odds against the chance of growing old.
Then, when the war was over and her boys went home
The wings of war were mothballed; decades she spent alone.
The years of wind, sun and rain faded the old girl.
By the time I finally found her she was not long for this world.
I looked at my Grandpa’s photo of the bomber he once flew.
Despite the faded colors I was certain it was you.
The owners of the junkyard looked with favor on my quest
As I set out to battle the years of grime and rust.
Then I set out my palette to restore each shade and hue
I cannot make grandfather young but I can restore her to you
Her legs are lithe and beautiful just as I ‘d been told
her eyes a cold blue steel,and her hair a platinum gold.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:13 PM UTC
i love it so much when you see a looker and walker in the sun and wind
looking straight ahead or slightly down
with eyes sliding up sometimes to see again for the first time the tops of buildings always entered at the lowest runoff point
sliding down sometimes to interrogate turnless stones
this eye wandering distracts and more sharply attunes the looker and walker to the smile
the smile that is trying to kickbox its way onto the proscenium of the eyes, mouth, and probably the hands and the whole body
and to the spark that started all this kickboxing in the first place
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 6:45 AM UTC
i am a tree
i am an observer
i do not speak
i listen and listen
and wait patiently
for something to witness
as i stand still silently
i see
war and
**** and
****** and
suicide and
all brutalities,
caused by
human nature
but i see
love and
joy and
character and
movement and
all endless possibilities,
caused by
human nature
i do not have a voice
i cannot move
i can only grow
higher and higher
closer to the sun,
i can only change
the colours of my leaves
to aware others
of new seasons
i provide oxygen
for all these infinite beings
and i do not know
how many years i will
be rooted here
as an insignificant
on-looker
Mar 10, 2014
Mar 10, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
the brother was my age and not a looker. my parents were nervous about displaying him and slicked his hair back lovingly. their hands were careful and if they touched they did so without independence.
I had other presents but I was thinking about the blood in my body and about Stephen. Stephen was an across the street foster I for a summer could not separate from. his nose was constantly chapped because his parents found he had no manners at the table and would have his older sister sneak up behind him and hood him with an empty feed bag. I went in with Stephen once saying his sister had called him a ******* and his parents liked me enough that they soaped her mouth in front of me then tied a string to her seemingly always loose front tooth and then tied the escaping end of the string to the **** of an open door and slammed it. because of our honesty Stephen and I were allowed to watch a movie where a white man and a savage pressed their wrists together after cutting them. the movie looked away from the cutting so we improvised. it didn’t make us any closer. I knew this for sure when on the night Stephen ran away I didn’t wake up without having to **** it was my dad found him days within the week making boxes a mile gone at a pizza shop because he said his name was Billy and would work for free.
I looked at the brother and couldn’t see it being so without my blood. I explored shyly but with faith and was heartened when I could feel in the heat of his elbows all the time he’d been born with.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
She had a fading tattoo
on her thigh
which caught my eye.
Winnie asked me
to help her
bath Florence
as she was alone
and I wasn't busy.
You don't mind
if Benny helps me
bath you
do you Florence?
Winnie said.
Me?
no make my day
for a young feller
to see my tattoo again
first time
in many years
I can tell you
Florence said.
Used to be
a dancer
back in
the early days
danced on stage
up in London
and sometimes
when we toured
we went all
over the place.
Once Winnie
had helped
Florence undress
I saw the tattoo clearer
it was in blue and pink
and was of a dancer
doing the can-can.
Is that what
you did Florence
the can-can?
Winnie said.
Yes that
and other dancing too
did more than
dancing too
other times
she laughed.
I smiled.
She had her
grey hair long now
as Winnie
had unpinned
the hair to wash it.
Had a young feller
who wanted
to marry me
but he got himself
killed at Mons
and that was that.
Another one came
back blinded
and although
I could have
married him
I wasn't keen
on marrying
a blind bloke
you know what
with me dancing
and touring
and having to
help him
I couldn't do it.
I think he married
some other girl.
Florence went quiet
had my chances
but never did marry.
Bet you were a looker
when you were young
Winnie said.
Got a photo
in my drawer
when I was a dancer
one of those sepia jobs
faded a bit like me
but you can see me
as I was then.
We eased Florence
down in the bath.
I wondered how many
other men had seen her
like I did
but didn't ask or say.
Once in the bath
Winnie did her back
and Florence talked on
all about once upon.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 3:59 AM UTC
Look, how darling!
Angels float above her bed.
Look closer though, darling?
Look at all that's in her head.
Look, how sweet!
Her eyes shine like stars.
Look closer though, sweet?
Look at her invisible scars.
Look, how precious!
Her actions are so kind.
Look closer though, precious?
Look at the pain in her mind.
Look, how cute,
She is just so innocent.
Look closer though, cute?
Look at who's paid rent.
Look, how adorable!
Her garden always grows.
Looker closer though, adorable?
Look at how much she knows.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
Plush carpet, soft light
Hotel foyer at night.
Oh, what a fright!
I might be a looker,
don’t mean I’m a ******
Did my lipstick suggest that I might?
“Madam, how you like this play”?
The disgrace on my face gives me away.
What did you think I was going to say?
“Hey, Jack, let’s get out of this place”?
(That’s three questions in four lines
so for clarification of this causation
my effect carries no invitation).
It’s a case of mistaken identity:
You didn’t sent for me,
so can’t pay rent for me.
Baby, I ain’t no lady… of the night.
That’s not why I came here,
and it’s not the same, dear.
Quit with the Shakespeare!
This chick has much to protest.
To signal intent for your frontin’
you should wear a carnation or somethin’,
be discreet, don’t hang out the bunting.
So, I attract, I won’t deny fact,
but your attention is bordering on hunting.
It’s a case of mistaken identity:
You didn’t sent for me,
so can’t pay rent for me.
Baby, I ain’t no lady… of the night.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
I am just an onlooker
what makes them think I'm involved in their drama
They casted and gathered their actors
started their theatricals
So commence the Love Scene...Act One
You...join the Club, play the leading lady
If it was love, why didn't I jumped there when she moved
Why did I call my sister when she visited
Why did I go there with my sister the one time I visited
Why the long interval before the last contact
Why refuse to see the symbolic gift.
I know you like pink
or miss the essence of the pointed finger
placed near your groin.
I am not that slow, was I to hold your finger with my palm resting
on that warm soft place
I did not, I reached over for it avoiding any touch there.
I don't do sneaky touches or sneaky anything for that matter
what about those words spoken during the performance in the store
" my job is done, I can leave now "
I only ever wanted to reciprocate a debt of thanks I owed to a father
thought maybe I could in some way to a daughter
I tried in my own way to value people, be there if needed
I stopped
Nothing to do with respect, nothing to do with desires
Nothing to do with faked angry rudeness
or theatrical screams - a childish act for little minds
The hurt was from seeing an 'educated' contemporary sister
coming from oppression, an emancipated modern educated women
who I thought would easily see the dynamics of political oppression and the insidious ways we are manipulated
only to realize, even she couldn't see
and is unable to break free from mental **********
or even understand the mechanics of 'mental oppression'.
OR the unalienable truth that
'If one person is oppressed, we are all oppressed'
a concept too complex for the simple mind
Education is not intelligence, that hurts. c'est la vie
write your dirges, live your delusions, fantasize your love story
formulate your scenarios and talk of unrequited love
heartbreak, pain, loss, pink, rainbow
or whatever silly minds un-think up.
I am only an on looker, just a plain disinterested onlooker.
I am not part of you!!!
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 11:39 PM UTC
I met a girl who walked the street,
I have to say she really looked sweet,
Tight skirt of leather and lace,
Long hair framed a pretty face,
Didn't take much more than a glance,
To realize I wanted to get into her pants,
Next time I saw her walking by,
I chugged my beer and went over to say 'Hi,'
She asked me if I wanted to go out,
What she did for a living, there was no doubt,
Just to make sure there is no misconception,
I normally don't pay, this was an exception,
The girl looked so fine and seemed so nice,
I figured she might be worth the price,
So I headed home in a mad dash,
Reached into a drawer and grabbed some cash,
I went back and grabbed her by the hand,
Fully expecting a one night stand,
The first time we rented a room,
It was quick, just 'bing, bam, boom,'
But we started meeting here and there,
It soon becoming a regular affair,
Got to a point where it was 'What the heck?'
I should just sign and give her my check,
But this girl could really do it all,
And for her I was starting to fall,
Though of her skills I never got bored,
She was a bit more than I could afford,
But, if she really wanted more,
I was prepared to rob a store,
Though she was a really great lay,
I just could no longer afford to pay,
So I figured if I have to pay for every lick,
It might be cheaper to marry the chick,
But when my friends comment 'Your wife's a looker,'
I hate to admit I married a ******
04-13-10.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 7:29 PM UTC