You're Out Before You Realise It's All Wrong


Wearing clumpy boots, black
		stockings, a miniskirt, loose top, no
			     bra, lipstick, darkglasses, a black cowboy
riding the borderline of too old for this,
riding a bike, the skirt riding up,
you've just realised the white
crotch of the pantyhose is flashing
	       oncoming traffic, that unless you ride
no hands tall people
		  can see your tits.

Because of this you know you'll see him.
Sure enough you pass a tree and he
		is walking home with plastic bags
		of bottled company.

Your legs from a long way off
have his attention, your morse code fanny,
your hat like a nervous breakdown.
You can't take your eyes off the man who didn't fall
		even after you jumped.
The bike wavers, you coast
		so as not to signal SOS.

After months of mute hostilies, you win.
It's depressingly simple - your legs
		squeeze a mangled hello from him
as you glide by like bad television.

Gameshow Cowgirl and Drink o' Grim
and the ManWomanThing. 


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