I find myself in an unusual situation. After 12 years of writing poems about other people, somebody has come along and played me at my own game. What follows is a Chaucer inspired account of Francis and I stumbling across each other in Amman back in April. I’m beginning to let myself wonder, just ever so slightly, whether the broken record that has been the last decade or so of my life might finally fix itself and start playing a new tune?

I

Younge Francis flewe into Olde Amman

(Proff’ring not the slightest of damn

about COVID laws and STDs)

beganeth his campaign of sleaze

to search amongst valley plebeians

tor the most callipygean maiden

(for once she’s found and unfurled

must proceed to rock his world).

He spakest with the greatest of urge

To the Four Seasons concierge:

‘Where does one in the Levant begin

to find fair girls to ply with gin?

I’ve tried the souk, the ruins and the mall;

where’s my bikini model haul?’

To this the concierge blinked and thought,

‘I’m not surprised he’s so unsought,

he’s clearly an ass, a clueless Brit

who see-est himself as Brad Pitt…

But give an answer slick and nifty

maybe then he’ll tip me fifty?’

‘Sir,’ he said, ‘it vexes me to hear

maidens giving you the ‘All Clear’

burning that heart into cinder.

Tell me sir, hast thou tried Tinder?’

‘No,’ the boy said, ‘adult friend finder,

Bumble, Craiglist – even Grindr –

I join-ned them all except this one

soon, one hopes, I’ll be over-run!’

He sprant upstairs with breath and a cough

and swiped right til his thumb fell off.

And so beganneth his Tinder quest:

eyeballs rating each smile and breast

like judges at a gymnastic show:

‘Ooh that will do, that’s gotta go;

where’s your bio, you absolute crow?

A chick with a dick? Good God, no!’

It’s said there’s plenty of fish out there

but a few meetings thence laid bare,

a truth must known, sacred and devout,

this ocean’s all catfish and trout

who have perfected their angled phots

to hide third eyes and wide ass bots.

Date number one arrived in a truck.

Number two solely down to f**k.

Three was fun for a minute or two

until she said ‘i will find you

if you leave me for any of your reasons…

I know you’re in the Four Seasons.’

Her eyes were wild, convincingly so

to persuade the boy not go

right there and then.

Three hours did chime

he bolted just pre-business time.

He returned to his room, chained the door:

‘Never fucking again!’ he swore.

Ten minutes passed and feeling the horn,

the addict pricked by Tinder’s thorn

swiped away like a furried creature

and stumbled on the most hot teacher!

Her name was Emma, her photos…weak.

Her bio? Oh so tongue-in-cheek!

The boy was enchanted and wanting

to go arrange some restauranting.

Soon, still pondering on expressage,

there came from Emma a message

asking just what a ‘real doctor’ meant;

the temerity! Such dissent!

Now the boy was mildly conflicted.

This girl whose photos depicted 

nothing special obsessed with a harp…

Yet her messages seemed so sharp?

Emma was funny, smart and cool,

oh to be a kid at her school!

A date was made a few floors above

twas this the scene where he’d fall in love?

II

Thence came date night, the scene was set

(and being a real martinet)

the boy spent hours sorting his hair

hoping he might just get somewhere

for this just wasn’t your standard minx

speaking more riddles than the sphinx.

Emma was diff’rent. Humour and brains!

She seemed smarter than JM Keynes.

Despite the substandard profile pics

her brain alone gave him the kicks.

From his chic room he soon departed 

nervous, what had he started?

Would Emma like him? How would he know?

Would she fall for this average Joe?

He entered the bar, how people did look

As Norm No-Mates appeared with a book.

The girls next door in the subt-lest way

reached into their bags for pepper spray.

The hour did strike and yet still no sign

of Lady Hamilton’s behind.

He worried that she’d done a runner

but then his eye glimpsed a stunner.

He turned and saw amidst the fauna

something fine sat in the corner!

‘Forget Emma,’ this buffoon then thought

‘This hotty in the corner ought

to replace her. Let me try my luck’

And so with his bum seat unstuck

he walked over and smiled and said

…(alas that memory was shed)

due to overconsumption of red

that rendered my brain almost dead.

Apologies dear reader, but here

by dementia this story’s steered).

But I digress…back to this lady.

Though the corner was quite shady

this girl sat sublime, smiling supreme

‘Christ,’ he thought, ‘this must be a dream.’

This fox was named Emma, don’t you know?

(and the old Emma failed to show..

Thank God! Can you picture the wrong bride 

turning up hither alongside?)

Books were compared, the boy’s most lacking

the product of years of slacking

‘Through boring English classes my dear.’

The boy declared with cheeky jeer.

They smiled, they laughed. The world was righted,

The boy couldn’t have been more delighted!

Time flew fast and before he knew it

twas time to know if he’d blew it.

He walked Emma back to her home place

and tried for the full carnal embrace

but Emma was pure, wise and shrewd…

blaming a car for killing the mood.

She vanished upstairs, that Queen of Hearts

(he skulked home and iced certain parts)…