A Hunter's Plea

A tired, lonely man prowls for victories wherever he can…

I patron a pub near pier called Saltfleet,

My index in mind a hodge-podge of potential passion.

To spotted mottled vixen take warning take heed,

You see I’m called a b*****d don’t trust a bad seed.

From more than should say her odor I do loathe, 

The smell of other’s victories not of virgins of lore.

But I’m a lonely hunter who chases wounded prey,

A place made easy if only she would stay.

She relinquished that space between us,

Less distance not miles but inches.

Unaware of me or did she not care for me,

I’d like her more if she were free.

The way she left was no less than prudent,

An innate ability to pace between places.

With guile and purposeful strides abound,

She selling sin by the pound.

Frozen in an awkward state of palsy,

Thinking of her cleft succulent delicacy.

The science of us is the mother of sin,

Can I find the strength of purpose within?

I the master of linguistics but of flaccid prose,

A man for all seasons I fall not spring.

The anger and resentment I possess like summer heat,

Like winter she’s cold yet I leave my seat.

She now at corner of plastic or paper,

I’d offer her pounds for much less than more.

Those curves ahead... a man... his petitioned plea,

I stop... he snatches harlot my friend she’s not free.

I care less than more for she was a w***e

from plastic and paper the boulevard of glee.

Should I worry about my inadequate hunt,

Or remember my place a dirty, old runt?

Too many miles surround my distorted face,

Good looking not much not even no more.

Why oh why I wonder why bother,

Help I’m a freak just like my father.