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
