don't read this

I’m pretty good

at drinking beer,

picking songs,

and driving stick.

Knotting a tie

in several ways.

Matching meats

for a decent sandwich.

Name all the Bond films,

explain meanings of flowers,

fold napkins into roses,

drink martinis shaken dry.

But I’m special agent skilled

at making especially bad decisions.

I can double talk,

find my pants in the dark,

semi-swagger walk,

bend a bluesy harp.

I can double take,

stealthy nympho ninja,

while we’re both mid-gait,

in una strada stretta.

And if you notice,

don’t let me talk.

If you talk too,

there’s no hope for you.

So this is my disclaimer.

A warning, my future ex,

because I’ve learned from bad decisions.

I’m good at sex,

not what comes next.

photo1:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3231/2923992303_1a6da1a0e1.jpg

photo2:http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3003/2894944587_7f2983e8f3.jpg