Femme Fatale

The barman nodded knowingly, she smiled and said “Bonsoir”
She moulded to a barstool and he brought her café noir.
Her scarlet beret matched the lipstick rosebud on her cup,
I sat beside her, caught her eye then winked and said “Ey up”
I said “hello love, what’s your name” She answered “Femme fatale”
I asked “Well, how’s it going lass?” she shrugged and said “Pas mal”
She pointed to an olive dish and whispered “Voulez-vous?”
“Another Abba fan,” I said, “My favourite’s Waterloo”
“Why not come back to my place, love, for coffee, chat, etcetera”
She raised an eyebrow, curled her lip, murmuring “Peut etre”
“Let me whisk you off,” I said. She muttered “Laisez faire.”
“Well darlin’ it’s you’re lucky night! I’m gonna take you there!”
I said “You want to eat something? I’ve heard it’s Cordon Bleu”
“Naturellement” she replied “It’s simply de rigeur”
“They do good fish and chips” I said “with mushy petit pois”
Looking down her nose she shook her head and said “Faux pas”
I said “Don’t you belittle me, my girl, I know your sort
You’re taking lots of liberties.” She answered “Vive le sport!”
She eyed the menu up and down then muttered “Quelque chose”
“Me too.” I said, confidently “Yes I’ll have one of those”
“It all looks very chic” she said, “Shall we go a la carte?”
“Oh no, we’ll eat right here,” I said, “I’ll have the onion tart”
She leaned towards me whispering seductively “Du vin?”
“Usually I do” I said “They call me white van man”
She finished off a plate of snails and proclaimed “Magnifique!”
I suggested “If you like we’ll do this every week”
A chauffeur stepped in at the door. She said “here is my car.”
“I’ve put the meal on my account so I’ll say au revoir”
“Don’t leave me on my own “I cried” to walk a lonely road”
“How can you be alone?” she winked “You have your chevre chaud”

It's a King Thing

It’s a king thing.
All this talk of a royal wedding is doing my head in, doing my head in.
Let me tell you about royal weddings.
I've had a few do you know who I am?
I’m Henry Tudor, yes Tudor. Without wishing to be rude or crass
these royal weddings are a pain in my Tudor ass.
Oh yes I’ve had a few, do
you want me to regale you with tales of regalia,
of conquests and failures,
of ladies in waiting, sating
my appetite for mating.
It’s a king thing, all that bling.
With this ring I thee wed
is what I said,
but don’t let me find you in anyone’s bed
or you’ll wind up dead
with a rolling head.
It’s a king thing
to start your own church
if you’re left in the lurch
so arrivaderci to Rome and the pope,
no hopers, cardinal sinners.
You could have backed a winner
with me and Boleyn; are
you still preaching , fools
or breaching rules?
It’s a king thing.
The way things are
it’s better by far
to be one over Parr.
Don’t go looking at my wife
if you value your life;
I’ll see you later,
you traitor at the gate or
behind the stables if it just can’t wait.
I see more than you think,
before you can blink
you'll be in the tower;
cometh the hour,
cometh the man with the power.
Are we clear?
It’s a king thing.
But wait, oh Kates, I’ve had a few,
but then again, not too few to mention;
always my intention
to be the centre of everyone’s attention,
not in a shy way
or a sly way
or even a Howard’s way.
Let history record that
I did it my way!

Acknowledgement to Paul Anka for My Way

Papa Oscar Echo Mike

Mike was a Romeo, I met him one November
Looking for a Juliet as far as I remember;
He was a kind of Alpha male, who drove a Ford Sierra,
I prefer a man in Uniform but they're a good deal rarer.
He said he liked my dancing shoes and would I like a Foxtrot.
We checked into a cheap Hotel and soon he found my hotspot.
I read him like an X-ray but he held me fascinated;
He could have won an Oscar but the film would be X rated.
I started craving spicy food from India and Nepal;
I put on weight, a Kilo; that's not like me at all.
Victor at the Golf club said "My boy you'll have to marry her."
Mike screamed and threw his arms about just like a Zulu warrior.
He said "You see, I'm not quite ready yet to be a Papa."
I called him a Charlie and he called me a slapper.
But it takes two to Tango as I really ought to know;
I Delta blow for women's lib and told him where to go.
He joined a Yankee sailing crew, leaving for Quebec;
My scathing cry of 'Bravo' seemed to Echo round the deck.
He runs a place in Lima now, it's called the Aztec Bar,
Drinking Whiskey, playing cards - I said that he'd go far.

She (not the Charles Aznavour version)

She may be the face I can’t forget
Like something rescued from a vet
The fixed notice penalty I’ll have to pay
She may be the hollow in the bed
That causes me to butt my head
Sliding to her side instead
The chill I feel as she steals all the duvet

She, whose yoghurt’s bought to combat yeast,
May have the fragrance of a beast
Like rutting goats or flocks of geese
That settle on my car just when it’s waxed
The reversing mirror of my dream
Where things are larger than they seem
That make me turn and want to scream
The reason why my credit cards are maxed

She who always stands out in a crowd
With both voice and clothes that are so loud
Leopard spots with zebra stripes
Her arse and mouth that are so vast
And from each there comes a blast
Like rockets fired from organ pipes

She, the reason my B.P. needs screening
A life without pain has no meaning
Was once said by Schopenhauer
Perhaps he met her, I don’t know
But where she goes I’ve got to go
The marriage vows have said so
The meaning of my life is she… she…
(Death be my release…)

(Photo (c) Mashline/Aleksander Kuki, fair-use low-resolution copy not for profit.)