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Poem

You often hear those fellas who go bragging in the pub,
about women and their conquests, and how they’re the sexual hub,
they spruik about their exploits like they are a gift from God,
of course I end up listening to, the peas from in one pod.

Yeah, they’re out to beat each other with their antics in a bed,
thank God there’s not a woman here, to hear what has been said,
‘cause I’m sure they’d laugh their guts out at the drivel I have heard.
and I never speak off exploits. I say nothing… not a word.

In some ways I’m just like them; these mates who choose to brag,
I’ve had some nights out on the tear, and played the rutting stag,
but I would never tell those mates of mine about one night I had,
when I met this ‘bird’ in Melbourne, who’s looks were not too bad.

We got talking at the bar and so I brought her drinks and tea,
and after downing seven ouzo’s she was making eyes at me,
then she added some suggestions that quite openly I read
as a kind of invitation that she liked to share her bed.

Now those mates of mine with what they said is really second class,
and I know from my experience their acts would barely pass,
but let me tell you in the morning when it’s light I’m taking note,
of a photo on her dresser, that brought a lump into me throat. 

I admit that I was worried with a need to understand,
so I asked her if this photo was her out of town husband,
she laughed and said “No, silly!” And snuggled up again,
but I had to clear the coast… “Is this your boyfriend then?”

She shook her head “No, not at all”, then nibbled on me ear,
“Who is it then?” I asked the lass, to minimize me fear.
She was upfront, she didn’t lie, and there was no perjury,
she kissed me gently then she said “It’s me, before the surgery.”

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