His Story

Sitting at the club tonight
drinking the sixth, nay the eighth
he thought he saw a ghost
sitting on the chair behind the light
he cursed under his breath
and wished the spectre out of sight

he blinked hard, she looked like Mary
so fair and stunning without her clothes
he remembered well, his gambol last May
in the house so cold but he was  lighted by fires
from his loin, stoked well by her D-cups
devouring her pristine innocence with his lips

as the night grow old and the morning dawned
he had picked up his clothes and tiptoed
away from the sleeping Venus, and the town
never wanting anything permanent, much less tied
it was a fleeting need, a brief acquaintance
food for the tummy, and other sustenance

its been a year since he cavorted with her
he thought, ruefully and shook his head
‘I remember her name, and no other
My love for whores and whoring is dead
Have I buried my heart with this daughter
Of a dead farmer, far away, a mere villager?’

He walked away from the pub tonight
Fell on his face in the parking lot
Picked up by others who picked his pocket
all he could do was puke and wipe his snot.