Yet another poem from the out-take pile. I must try harder…
That dress? What d’you think? Or maybe this dress?
These shoes? Tell me what you would prefer.
Doesn’t matter who, my wife or mistress:
I guess what each expects, and then concur.
The question is identical in hideaway or house:
My secret lover is the same as if she were my spouse.
It’s not to say that I’m all pipe-and-slippers,
Or careless how my pair of women look.
But both of them could dress as bodice-rippers
Or harlots hanging round a Turkish souk:
I do not mind. In fact I have begun to wonder whether
It might be better if they shared a happy home together.
I thought they’d cater to my different needs,
Would spice my life by offering me change.
My wife, I fancied, might be wearing tweeds,
My mistress more exotic, scarlet, strange.
But now I’ve found they’re really just extensions of each other.
And does my bum … That does it. I am going back to Mother.