He doesn't see the problem. They are friends
she's often said so. She is lonely too.
He's bought her dinner. Now why can't she do
this one small thing? The messages she sends
are mixed. Her kiss goodbye tickles his cheek.
He holds her hand too long. Sees in her eyes
a feeling he should stop, apologize.
He's really had a fucking awful week.
It happens. And she cries. How typical.
It's what she wanted, really. He was drunk.
She wouldn't like him if he were a monk.
He's angry that she cries, leaves, doesn't call.
The friendship's over. And he's feeling sad.
He loved her, but all bitches are quite mad.
He feels connected to each one. He knows
he'll change each life forever, mould each mind.
And be the most considerate they'd find
to teach them love. It's sad that each one grows
and leaves. Or he leaves first. Better that way
because the guilt's on him. As at the start.
His tenderness for each sweet girl's young heart
is more than he can find the words to say.
Actions speak louder. His inquiring hand,
creeps up their leg. His tongue invades an ear.
He whispers darling, sweetheart, oh my dear.
After, he'll introduce her to the band
give her a better mark, or buy her tea.
And no harm done at all that he can see.
He does not hear their screams. He masturbates
Until red sore.Then pulls a velvet rag
Across the glans. He'll use it as a gag
A little later. Underneath the floor
His special room. He saw her in the street
Pulled her into his car. He's impotent
So far with her. He's worried that she meant
Those things she said. And so he tied her feet
To keep her safe. She's such an attitude
some men, not him, would hurt her, break her jaw
so she could not say such things any more.
He tears her clothes off, he prefers them nude
Takes her downstairs ignores her gasps and tears
Some of his girls have been with him for years.