the tall, slender brunette ordered me
in the 13th floor room, one of Hilton's finest,
with five, plush and comfy over-sized down pillows
even a momma duck would be proud to call her own.
"Shoe's off, jacket too, then the pants"
she ordered before motioning me to spread 'em
legs, arms wide open
like a child making snow angels in the winter.
Cuffed like a fish-eyed fool on TV's Cops,
I puckered up for a kiss
was rocked by a right cross
that knocked me into next Tuesday's dreamland.
When I awoke
with jawbone sore, though spirits high
the domineering girl was gone
and I was blue
in a tub filled with ice
- minus one kidney.
Moral of this story:
Never take the arm of a stern English looker
at a a new local British pub
for the next meat pie you eat
just may be your own.