Saturday Sonnet #5

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friday

In hindsight, some despair is evident,

But, hey, what else are you supposed to do

when pheromones, it seems, are heaven sent,

and order you, put bluntly, to go screw?

Whilst every single Gay in London town

Comes freshly from the Spa or from the Gym,

you squeeze into your jeans, perfect your frown,

and go into the night in search of him.

Then end amidst the throng on Compton Street

At sometime near approaching kicking out

To find a man with size eleven feet

And money left to stand for his own shout.

Though his Trainers are hotter than his form

you bed him; any old port in a storm.

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