The Hurricane
I’ve heard men say they favour a quiet life,
TV dinners, loved up with a tender wife,
But I’m drawn to the madness, a moth to a flame,
And so, one September evening, I dated The Hurricane.
I arrived without a care, a little worse for wear,
Vongole aromas, a corner chair,
There sat Sandy with her platinum hair,
This Highgate bombshell, I hadn’t a prayer.
She said she was sick, that I should run,
But I’d already signed up for the loaded gun.
I ordered lamb cutlet in pistachio sauce,
Some Puglian wine, I forget the second course,
Yes, she told me to run, she’d be disfigured,
Rabid cancer, an emotional blizzard,
But I loved her laugh, her toothpaste smile,
Her fuck-off ego, her rockstar style.
I didn’t run, but it was a helter-skelter ride.
She burnt my clothes, nowhere to hide,
We’d share wigs and wine, we’d Nutribullet kale,
I was blocked on insta, WhatsApp and Googlemail,
Toxic and tragic, Al fresco Aperol Spritz,
Dancing around a hundred hospital trips.
Burton & Taylor, a cliche I know,
Just crazy Bucky and lost Martino ..