How to Pick Up Women
It is from here on you must consider yourself a fisherman
who catches, devours, or mounts a woman’s hips, as if she’s
a prized bass from the Chilean Sea. Consider me
or this, brotherly advice. The wisest
I’ve ever given before I morph tongue-tied on the altar
in anticipation of the moment my tongue’s supposed to perform
in the sanctity of nuptial situations. Which could suck.
So beforehand, I relent those women you meet in bars, meet at parties,
meet in cars—backseat, toe-to-toe, are less kosher than hillbilly ham salad,
despite how supple, despite how chaste, despite how cherried her lip gloss tastes,
and no matter how many more legs she has than tables at Rockefeller’s,
you might profit looking for a woman in more spaced rooms.
In case you are confused, a girl with legs more crossed
than Christians is great, but avoid sneaking your dirty
loins into chapel on Sunday. One half of churched girls slip
drawls of sexed sin from Saturday night goblets , and the rest
are more interested in studying Jesus in red letter format
than deciphering the underlying message of your anatomy.
Take it from me, that girls like men who know curves
in the rims of pots and pans. They think a man who babies
orchids, has the same potential of blooming
two lips in his apartment. Women love sentimental shit.
And on her worst days that bitch might be a bitch,
but never is she a bitch by name unless you’re cool
with the hematoma to the left temporal area
of your head to be found fatal—which reminds me,
make sure she doesn’t own a bat. In fact, women are a job--
full-time, minimum wage. No union. Marriage is your promotion.
and when the vows are done, you know that sweetie snookum honey buns
will finally be scrubbing your nasty drawers until death do you part.
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