The Date

The girl popped up on my Messenger

And said, ‘Do you want to date?’

I said, ‘I think I’m too old for you,

You’ve left it a little late.’

‘I don’t think age is a problem,’ she

Replied on the silver screen,

‘I’ll meet you down at the Horse and Hound

Then you can see what I mean.’

I must admit I was curious

So ran a comb through my hair,

At least, what little was left of it

There wasn’t a lot to spare,

I wondered what she had seen in me

But soon I was outward bound,

Driving the mile through Oswestry

To meet at the Horse and Hound.

She sat alone at a table there

And smiled as I wandered in,

She must have been all of thirty-three

With a smile as wicked as sin.

She told me her name was Erika

And that she felt drawn to me,

Told me she’d lived in Africa

Though was pale as pale could be.

I said I was much too old for her

Though I thought her really nice,

She reached on out and she held my hand

But her hand was cold as ice,

Her skin was smoother than marble

And her eyes were crystal blue,

Her gaze was fierce as they filled with tears,

She said, ‘I just want you.’

We ended back at her flat, somehow,

Of African charms and tokens,

Carved wooden heads strung across her bed

And a totem that was broken,

She sat me down with a bushman's hat

And she cooked a vile concoction,

I asked her where she had got the stuff,

‘I bought it all at auction.’

Then she poured me a brimming cup

And bid me then to drink it,

She begged me, saying ‘My time is short’,

I had no time to think it.

A sip was all I could take, it had

The taste of flavoured mud,

She flung herself on my neck, and said

‘I need a pint of blood.’

  

I pushed the woman away, she fell

To crouching in the corner,

And crying that I would go to hell

If I’d not become her donor,

Then she shrivelled, that perfect skin

Was cracked and aged like parchment,

She lay, a hundred and fifty three

At least, in that apartment.

So now I’m wary of Messenger

And of women that approach me,

I won’t take younger than sixty three

If a woman wants to coach me,

If once they say that age doesn’t count

I break out in a sweat,

And say, ‘so sorry, I’m married now,’

And I haven’t met one yet.

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[flaco]

This one made me laugh
I think I'll have to read more of your writing.

steve