It definitely was the red,
I know what did it. Girls in red?
I've no defence, I'm finished. Done.
(My mum would tell me to "watch out
for girls dressed all in red - they're out
for only one thing, them." Thanks mum,
I'd think, I'll sure remember that!)
And then there were her kinky boots...
(Not mum's, of course. Red Riding Hood's.)
They're guaranteed to work me up,
no sweat. So all in all, she looked
the sort who'd heat up for a bloke
who'd put the frighteners on her.
(Just a touch, that is. Nothing too --
what shall I say? - extreme. Know what
I mean?) So there's me faking it,
like reality's gone out of
fashion while our backs were turned,
not telling her, not letting on --
first this, then that, about her gran.
Warming her up nicely, thanks, and
wondering if I should tell her --
if that would be to shoot one line
too many -- what a goer her
old Gran turned out to be, and how...
when in roars this mad hatchet man
like, well, he's just cleared out Hell's crypt...
So then, I'm out of there, and tout
de suit an' all! And very sweet
it could have been. Still, must stay a
touch positive. Some new chat-
lines came from it: like those big eyes,
big ears and stuff. They should all prove
more grist to my voracious mill.
Roll on the next dame dressed in red!
Spanish Grandparents might strike --
and bring Spain to a stop.