A lady once told me that what got her going
was a skilful poetic technique.
A well structured poem got her juices a-flowing
and a firm grasp of rhythm made her weak.

She longed for a master of language and style,
and her words seemed directed at me.
We talked about meter and rhyme for a while
whilst her eyes hinted what later might be.

‘You mean girls show their titties for second rate ditties?’
I asked in amazement at that.
‘Or for well-crafted verse they’ll dress up as a nurse
in black stockings and a little white hat?’

She smiled at me weakly, and with some disbelief -
the atmosphere suddenly cold.
But I’d brushed her off gently and with no small relief,
she was rather too grey and too old.

But if I’d known as a lad that a girl could be had
with some verse and a neat bit of rhyme,
I’d have polished my metaphors
and had ‘em in bed afore
they’d realised that my poem didn’t quite scan.