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)…
Whimsical Emma 