The Doctor.

Photo by Natanael Melchor on Unsplash

The Doctor.

She never fully understood why her mother hated her so. Was it jealousy ,envy, or a woman travelling through her own troubled psychological and spiritual world. But ever since she could remember her mother had told her many, many times, she was no good. That no man would ever want her, or find her attractive. The attacks became more frequent, cutting and corrosive as Jennifer’s youth vitality,and beauty began to emerge. As she moved from child to teenager to womanhood.

              Looking back on her childhood from the perspective of a mature adult, she reflected that perhaps her mother had being on her own tortuous journey through life, and was a troubled soul, as she had come to learn only those who had been hurt themselves, tried to hurt others. The poisonous seeds of destruction had long since being sown in Jennifer’s mind, and spirit ,and over many years had seeped deep into her soul, to fester for evermore.

                She arrived at her residence from yet another exhausting 14 hour day. Tired beyond belief, she slowly unlocked the gate that led into her recently purchased apartment. Ignoring the bright summer day, that others were so enjoying. She moved slowly toward her apartment. Too tired to laugh or smile anymore, she let herself into her empty apartment. Empty of happiness and joy. Devoid of passion for her career. Empty of love.

         Had she the energy, she would have slammed the door, and thrown her purchases onto the floor, with her self entitled rage. She carried these poisonous feelings with her everywhere, and everyday. They became more pronounced when tired, she managed to hide them somewhat at her work, but not fully. Her colleagues had come to know her as ‘tetchy, brusque, brutal and off hand’. To some she was a brilliant surgeon, of that there was no doubt, but her interactions with others, be they patients or colleagues, left a lot to be desired
       She  would have gladly swapped her intelligence, and skill as a surgeon, to be more attractive. Many evenings alone in her apartment cradling the glass of red wine, that had become a very comfortable and faithful companion, where she sat and brooded and raged at God. Fully believing that she was unattractive and would never find happiness with a loving partner. But it was all in her own mind.

               She was physically an appealing woman, with her long auburn hair, slim petite figure, and gracious movements. Although her austere and seriousness persona, may have being off putting to some. It was attractive to a certain sort of intelligent man.

                                    Greatly upset and angered by her perceived lack of attractiveness she had gotten into the habit of comparing herself unfavorably to other women, everywhere. How much thinner than her they were. How their skin was clearer. How much prettier they were, in her own mind. How happier they seemed, as they lived off their looks. She had come to despise and detest these other woman, and they prettier and happier they seemed. They more hatred she began to feel for them, especially at this time of the year, in the warm sunshine, when they looked even more striking. With their eye catching clothing, revealing more of their bodies. Turning men’s heads wherever they went. The better these women looked the more angry she became. She so wanted to make them hurt, to make them pay, someway, somehow.

         She finished her first glass of wine, knowing that she was not going to stop until the last drop was emptied from the bottle. It had become a nightly ritual for her now. To help assuage and calm her bitterness and rage. But there was little chance of avoiding her feelings, which came back like a wild storm every moment she was awake. She had become a wretched individual. Her colleagues did not like her anymore. Her family could no longer understand her, and her obsession with her looks and attractiveness
                At least she did have her work, which was some very little compensation to her.

It was the Tuesday morning she was scheduled to perform the operation. As she scrubbed up in the changing area, putting on the light blue uniform of the surgeon, washing her hands and foreman’s all the way up to her elbows, while one of the young student nurses, helped her, by attending to her latex gloves as she held her arms aloft. The operating theatre was a brightly lit room, with all the necessary attributes required to carry out the surgery. With the different scalpels, the surgical saw, that would have not looked out of place in a brutal builders tool bag, and other surgical instruments laid out neatly on the small wheeled trolley next to the bed. The white tiled walls and floor, easy to clean. The fresh scent of disinfectant, a familiar but at times overpowering fragrance to her. More akin to a torture chamber, and the instruments of death, to those not familiar, nor a frequent visitor to such place.
                  Her operating colleagues entered the theatre shortly after. She glowered at them each in turn, with a stern, unsmiling face. They a long time since given up trying humour and banter with her, as it would not work. It had worked on her in the early days, but now they had concluded among themselves she was now a changed person, and not a very nice person. Many would not have being here, had they not being scheduled by the hospital administrators. Work was work, and money was money. That was the attitude many had come to take. Looking to get the operation over, to do what they had to do, and to leave her company as soon as possible. The orderly switched on the classic musical, as she had always insisted. The calming strains of the cello concerto filled the white tiled operating theatre, as they awaited the arrival of the patient.

The orderlies wheeled in the patient, on the bed from the ward. She was still conscious. Looking scared, as is understandable. The orderlies joked with the young woman, trying to calm and ease her mind. She looked at the patient, and her fists clenched, the chemical concoction in her stomach started up.  The tightness in her chest and around her heart, palatable. She could feel the veins from her shoulders down along her forearms and into her hands and fingers tighten, and release internally, in her anger. Her jaw tightened and jutted out, her teeth clenched together hard, making her jaw become very square. Her eyes narrowed into spears and daggers, weapons of destruction. As she viewed the clear skin, the large blue eyes, the healthy shine of her hair. The voluptuous body plainly visible beneath the sheets. The friendly warm attitude, and easy smile, even under such circumstances. She noted how the men in the room, were taken with this young striking woman. She knew how they’d fawn and fall for her, given even a chance. Willing to fall in love with her, no matter what type of person she was. To forgive her everything, and shower her with gifts of love, forgiveness, wealth and more, just because of the way she looked.

     Something she had never experienced herself. She concluded how foolish, shallow and empty men were. But she still yearned for a man of her own. Some man to tell her how beautiful she was. How special she was. Some man to focus all his loving attention on her. She introduced herself to the striking young woman, trying hard to hide her envy, and jealousy, but not winning. She found no need to be overly civil to her, and relayed perhaps in more detail than was necessary the procedures she was about to perform. She continued to explain how she would make an incision with the large scalpel, which she held up in front of the patient. She explained how she would cut two inches into the woman’s stomach, just above the waistline, and from there move upwards into her breast bone area. Perhaps having to use the surgical saw, to access organs that lay beneath the breast bone. The more she spoke she could see how fearful and afraid the young woman was becoming, and she so enjoyed the feeling of power, she began to feel slightly light headed with it all. She concluded her chat with the patient by further explaining generally speaking, and letting these words hang in the air, purposefully, it was a reasonably safe procedure.

    Giddy with the power to cause such fear and suffering she asked the nurse to bring her a glass of water and a chair, waiting for her composure to return.

As she sat and waited for her composure to return. She wondered was God, or life at last coming on her side. Presenting her with such an opportunity, and there were sure to be other opportunities. So many future opportunities, so many choices and methods, to inflict damage and destruction up to any level she choose, even an agonising death, if she so wished. A chance of revenge. A little well overdue payback. Who would ever know. Of course a scalpel could slip. The wrong vein or artery could be cut. Millions of operations a year all over the world. These things can and do happen. An overworked exhausted surgeon trying their best to help the sick and dying. Patients die and get mutilated on operating tables all the time. Who would ever know, or be able to outright accuse her. Her colleagues watched astounded as, for the first time in years  a broad smile gently broke out on her face. Her eyes brightened.

                     ‘Let us begin’, she said softly, as she moved towards the operating table…………..


The Patrolman.


Photo by DEAN FAULKNER on Unsplash


He lent in through the open window, using the license, the power of his position.

‘ You show me what you got, little lady ‘.

He was reasonably young, strongly tanned, and a well developed but slim body. He looked powerful, and had that walk of authority, that walk of power. Thats what the job gave him. She so wished he would take of his dark sunglasses. To see his eyes, to gauge his intentions. Were his eyes soft and kind, or hard and mean. It was always one of the first indicators she used when interacting with someone new. She glanced at the large cream coloured motorcycle, with the helmet unsteadily perched on handle bars. His black uniform, adding to his seriousness and sense of power. The leather polished boots, and accruments of his position.

She was unsure, but hoped it was just a look at her license he was after and nothing more. The last thing she wanted was another confrontation. There was only so many she could take in a day.
She was going to leave him, that’s what she had decided. No more nonsense, no more being the scapegoat. No more fear, no more violence. It was the wrong relationship from the start, and she knew it. But out of loneliness, and her anxiety about her rapidly passing fertile years, it was a last grasp at Motherhood, and the children she yearned for. But not with him. Not now. The long drive on the open road, an opportunity to clear her head.

The crashing of metal upon metal, grating on her nerves. The Patrolman rolled forward at speed, at the impact. She took a sudden intake of breath and watched as his head hit the hot asphalt, and blood began to drain from his ear. He did not move. She glanced in the rear view to see the cause. The drivers face was sickingly familiar. Red faced and perspiring, He stumbled from the car, and raced towards hers, and quickly jumped in the seat beside her.

‘ You think you can run out on me, bitch’, his voice loud and menacing. Full of anger and violent intent.

The backhanded strike caught her full in the face. His knuckles crunching her nose, which immediately reddened at the impact. Blood flowed for the wound. He reached around the back of her head, grabbed her hair, forcefully and at speed, roughly pushed it forward, and smirked at her head bounced off the hardened steering wheel. Her vision was disappearing, as she fought against unconsciousness. Noting the same red and blue dirty checked shirt, and dirty jeans he had been wearing for the last week. Both badly in need of a wash, as he was. She watched as he took some of them from his shirt pocket, and ingested the white pills. They gave him what he had become accustomed to, welcomed and relished. That sense of instant, intense, physical and mental power and supreme confidence. That feeling of absolute invincibility. That he could take on anything thing, and everyone, with no negative repercussions whatsoever. It did not take long for them to enter his blood stream, and the resultant hyper energy, become evident. He screamed and howled like a demented animal, and hit the interior of the car roof, with his clenched fist, in rapid succession as the rush of the chemicals flooded his brain. His once permanently confirued hair, wild, and damp with perspiration. His once permanently clean shaven face, now rough, and unshaven. This was true living in his mind. Happiness unlimited.

As she fought unconsciousness, her mind reminisced about when they first met. How they were at one time truly, but very briefly in love. They spoke of the children they would raise together. The schools they would send them to. They pondered the future names, of their children to be, both female and male.
She watched through her barely opened eyes, as the Patrolman slowly struggled to force himself from the hot asphalt. His once tidy, neat black uniform, now soiled, torn and shabby. His chin grazed raw. His eyes no longer the powerful, confident eyes of only moments previously. The blazing heat, forcing vapours to raise from the highway, shimmering in the distance.

She sniffled, in an attempt to stem the blood from her nose, as it trickled down her chin. Her head thumping from her interaction with the steering wheel. Through her diminishing vision, she looked at the man she once loved, and tried to remember where it all went so wrong. Was she to blame. Could she have done anything differently. Was she the loving partner, that she always promised herself she would be, when she found ‘the one’.

He had never come to terms with it, and it haunted him forever. He never really spoke about. Perhaps once or twice, in a drunken haze. But then only very briefly. A small reference to the never ending guilt, and self hatred he felt. The remorse, and  regret. The non stop self torture. His mind never affording him much peace. She had listened to his tortured dreams, in his intermittent restless sleep. Where he begged for the opportunity to be given a second chance. To live those moments over. It was at times like that, which were many, he would quickly sit upright in the dishevelled bed, screaming loudly, and his uncovered body perspiring heavily. It was then she held him closely, and soothed and comforted him like a child, until he fell asleep.

He too watched the Patrolman slowly raise himself of the asphalt, and stagger slowly towards the car.

‘How do you like living ‘ his voice soft and gentle, while still watching the approaching Patrolman.

‘ Get out the damn car, bitch’.

The sudden change in his voice from gentleness, reminiscent of how he once was, to the loud, menacing voice that emanated from him now. Like a man possessed by an evil force, was enough to rouse her from near unconsciousness, and she took the opportunity and exited the vehicle. Laying on the hot sticky asphalt, through now barely open eyes, she watched as he revved the car engine, and aimed it at the staggering, approaching Patrol officer. A wild maniacal smile on his once handsome face.

Her consciousness sank into the welcoming darkness.

The Funeral.


Photo by Madison Grooms on Unsplash


They gathered in numbers. Slowly at first. Most dressed in all their finery. A mark of respect. Was that justified, who’s to know. But eventually the church was reasonably full. A surprisingly good turn out, considering.
Throughout his life he was a lover of music, and an accomplished musician himself. The lilting soft tones of his favourite piano pieces, echoed around the church walls, as played by the lady at the piano, on behalf of the church. The gentle soft, loving music, so out of sync with the church, with the life the man had led.

The crowd gathered, and shook the hands of the remaining living relatives, offering their commiserations, there shared sadness and reminiscences. Wheather it was true sadness, and grief, was quiet easy to see. Many, if not all, grateful that it was not them, nor one of their own who had been taken from this life. Glad they had escaped been clawed, dragged from this life.
His now grown children, with mixed emotions read from the lectern, remembering the few happy times they shared together. But I wont forget, the restraining  order issued by the courts, to protect his wife and children from his madness and violence, as they waited in fear, awaiting his return to the family home, that he was likely at any time to unleash upon them. The  finances used to indulge his selfish life style.
The affairs outside of the marriage, conducted in full view of the small town Ireland where he lived. The fleeing to England, with his latest flossy. The continual non payment of child and wife maintenance, rightfully due, but never paid. These are my memories of that man.
Others may have praised him, but it’s what many do, at a funeral. But what did they know of his family life, nothing. Perhaps they knew, but chose to ignore. But for those of us close to what was happening, he will be forever remembered, for the bastard what he was, and good riddance to him. I refused to go to the wake, a well known Irish tradition. To drink to drunkenness, and praise the departed and weep for their loss. I refused to indulge in such false sentiment. I’m sure, and trust the Devil has a warm welcome for him. The world is better off today.

Have I ?


Photo by Ozan Safak on Unsplash

He sat on the chair, the entrance gateway behind him, so close, but yet so far. In the semi darkness, he could not make out their faces, but could sense their power. Their non human spiritual power. They sat in judgement of him now. The three with the power. The ability to save, or condemn him. Had he known in advance, how sudden he would be called, of course he would have made amends. Of course he would have been more honest, in his dealings with others. He never would have interfered with those young, at times, very ill, innocent children. They with no choices. He reasoned to himself at least, that they were all sexual beings and most probably enjoyed the experience. The fact that nobody knew about, and nobody ever would, what did it matter. It hardly mattered to anybody. That’s what he reasoned.
The cruelty he inflicted on others, why, that would never have happened. If only his life had been different, had being more fulling, more full of abundance. If only life had been more fair to him, he in turn would have been more kind and generous to others.
His fearful, pleading, explaining eyes, begging for a second chance. Funny how it was the very same look on the face of his victims, and those on the receiving end of his cruelty, and dishonesty. God listened to his pleas, and his fear.

‘I have watched your life, and how you used your time. On many occasions I sent you guidance and messages, in the form of co-incidental events, idea’s planted in your mind, and people who crossed your path’, the Lord spoke slowly.
‘ You chose to ignore the messages, that became increasingly stronger, as you veered off the path of righteous. The Devil has your soul, and that’s where you must go’.

It didn’t take long for the anger to surface. The sudden leap from the chair. The futile attempt at running at and attacking those who sat in judgement on him. The swearing. He reached for the weapon, that was usually hidden in his waistband, to find it, not there.

‘Well, had you given me a fairer life, none of this would have happened’, the anger and volume in his voice, so loud and bitter.

‘None of it, Do you hear me.’ The venom and anger coming from the very depths of his body and soul. Guttural ,and full of violent, murderous intent His face near purple with rage. Perspiration appearing on his forehead, cheeks and seeping through to dampen his dark t-shirt. His body shook as he screamed, exhausted and spent of energy.
‘ You watched, as those I trusted, took that trust and used my innocence for their own desires. Men of your own cloth among them. You must have seen. Why did you let that happen, why Lord. Why did you sit back and let that happen ? Why did you take my family from my life, at such a young age ? ‘
‘Why did you take my loving wife from my life, in that brutal way ? ‘
‘Why did you make my children turn away from me ?’

God listened but did not answer.

‘To hell with you’, again from the very depths of his soul, and body. Now physically and mentally drained.

‘No’, the Lord countered, ‘to hell with you’.

‘I took those who borne you away, to make you stronger. To give you the strength, and tools, if you choose to use them. I sent you these and other tests, to make you stronger in this life, to prepare you for the next, and as punishment for the lives you have led in your previous incarnations. I made your children turn away, because I could see your soul could not be saved. I turned them away, to save them from you. Those who used you for their own desires, will pay the price, for the chances they were given, and the bad choices they made and the lessons never learned.’ The voice of the Lord, loud, thunderous, and angry. ‘ Not the God of love, that was preached to him from his school days of so long ago.
‘ All of you must, and will pay the price for the lives you have lived, in this life, and your past incarnations. Until and unless you learn your life lessons. Their is no escape, from how you have lived. Judgement comes to all’.

‘You will now find a warm welcome at the gates of hell, for that is where you belong, my child’.

Written in response to a photo prompt seen here :

The Dentist.



‘ Lay back’, that’s all she said. The voice hard, and cruel. Those once gentle eyes long replaced by a hardness, an uncaring, ruthless hue. Even though she was female, and perhaps at one time maternal. That was long gone. She was as ruthless, and cruel as any of the other commandants, well, torturers in the camp.

‘Open wide’, not a suggestion, more an order, and one that had better been obeyed. What choice did he have. Another beating, more starvation. More back breaking, physical labour in the fields. In the cold freezing bleak winter, that passed for a season.

He gripped the sides of the battered and well worn leather chair, that many had used before him. The bright white lights obscured her view, but not the pain she was inflecting. She inserted the scalpel, and what seemed like a miniature crowbar, and began to examine his teeth. Not that they needed redimaal treatment, aside from his softening gums. A result of the very poor diet they were subjected to. He would have gladly  paid for an anaesthetic, but he knew, she would not be forthcoming with one in any case.
The scent of her perfume was alluring. A gentle mixture of musk, and sweet orange petals. He was sure, he discerned. Such a gentle fragrance so out of sync with her hardened persona.
The guard by the door, examined his diary. His ill fitting uniform, helmet and rifle by his side. Bored beyond belief with he duties assigned to him. No doubt, would much rather be at the front, in the war zone. Doing what he could to ensure victory for the Fatherland. But this is where he was assigned, and he would carry out his duty to the best of his ability.

He could never understand the use of soothing classical music. It was not, he assured himself for the benefit of the patients, the genie pigs, as they didn’t really matter. What were they, but mere expendable subjects. With many more, readily available to replace them, if necessary. Neither did he understand what they hoped to gain, to learn, by inflecting such torturer on there prisoners, their victims. As she continued to examine his teeth, and purposefully strike the nerves with her instruments of torture. She smiled, cruelly as he jolted in the seat, as she probed inside his mouth, and along his finely attuned teeth. Her sense of power, adding to, and enhancing her self esteem. The weathered leather chair straps restraining his increasingly violent bodily movements.

He wanted to scream out in pain, as the silver instruments touched the nerves in his teeth, and perspiration appeared on his forehead, but he stopped himself. A little victory.  The wooden shed, that passed for a medical center, cum torture chamber, had no sound proofing to hide the screams. He owed it to his men, or so believed, to be strong, to show leadership. To not be beaten down in such a situation.
He transported his mind back to his childhood in Austria. Those summer days of freedom exploring the mountains and forests, near to his home.
He recalled images of his portly, ever smiling  Mother, as she cooked goulash and apple strudel for the family, and the laughter they shared when his father, returned from tending to the sheep on the mountain side. His hearty laughter, contagious around the long wooden kitchen table, and the blazing warming open fire.

The pain increased as she began to start using the dentists drill. The loud noise itself, enough to make one tense up. But without anaesthetic. It was an absolute instrument of torture. It’s long outstretched mechanical arms, like some type of automated robotic torture instrument. As small remanents of his teeth and gums, flew at speed from his mouth. He noted her cruel smile, as she bent over him, forcefully leaning on the drill.

Again he closed his eyes, and transported himself back to his childhood, and those summer days on the mountain side, in their remote home. The happiness and joys he shared with his loving parents and sister. His mind reverted through those youthful, happy years he spent in that small town. The friends he made. The first forays into female companionship. He smiled at the memories.

He was awakened from his memories by her screaming, and rough handling.

‘Take him away, he is no good’, the guard slowly walked towards the dentists old weathered chair, and began to undo the tightened straps, that held the unwilling patient down. She slammed the instruments down onto the tray, which rattled at the force of her anger. She turned away, removed her putrid rubber gloves, and began to wash her hands, at the filthy brown stained sink.
The guard struggled to drag the unconscious, but smiling body back to the shed from where it came.

Popular, why not ?

Photo by Nainoa Shizuru on Unsplash

Why are not more people reading my stuff
I mean, come on, I’m being as productive as I can be
Short stories, some life advice and even poetry
Why not more social media shares, or even any, I really do care
I want other’s to notice, and see what I write
Do I want to be famous, no that’s alright
Would I like my writing to be picked up by some movie producer
Some publishing house, oh such glee
Make a film of my stories, and I get rich, hopefully
Some newspapers, or websites, take my writings, and syndicate worldwide.
It happens like that in my imagination, why not here in real life

Am I living in a fantasy world, is this not how it should be
Perhaps my words are not the precious gems, and solutions I perceive them to be
Am I helping to solve people’s problems and issues
Or just writing for attention, and for others to say how great I can be
Maybe if I angle my writing towards helping others
Readers will visit by the score
After all I will be helping solve their problems, that may be piling up by their door
Maybe if I move on up that track, I’ll attract much acclaim
Perhaps others will listen to what I say and write, with awe
Should they wish to worship at my feet, well who am I to say, this they should not do
I am starting to live and die, by that red notification icon, on my WordPress site
Come on somebody, anybody, and give us a like
Hurry up will you, my anger and frustration, is getting well out of sight
I ain’t got the time to be sitting here all night, watching and reloading the screen
Another ding of that bell, then I’m assured I’m doing alright
That other people, actually like what I write
Then all is well with my world

Why am I writing here, is it to solve people’s issues
Or to keep my mind clear
Is it for popularity, fame, wealth and all that
Or a pseudo means of hidden psychotherapy
To keep me reasonably balanced and sane
As that’s what I find writing does
An opportuntiy to process, to reflect, and think things through
After been involved with people, and situations
Perhaps given a choice, one would not do
All that of course, and keep my brain fresh and engaged
Keep dementia from the door
Maybe I should just be satisfied with the small group that follow
And be happy and grateful enough with that.


dave-contreras-190480 (1)
Photo by Dave Contreras on Unsplash

Posture exercises all gone wrong, what happened their, I came on too strong
Impatience, speed, rush to improve
An almighty crack, a sudden snap
Instant pain right up my back
I was quiet convince as I winced
I must have surely broke my neck and shoulder
Now it’s a bit hard to move, and I’m in an angry mood
Stiffness, aches, creaking neck
Pains in my shoulder, and not just cause I’m older
It was the rushing, that pushing, that lust for the result
Now look what I’ve done, I’m right down in the dumps

The Doctor said, ‘It’ll sort itself out’
But that’s all he ever say’s, when I give him a shout
I’m stiff and sore, you know the score
‘You’ll recover ‘, he said, but it will take some time’
I mean for goodness sake, I hope he’s lying
I can’t be having this kind of discomfort
I tried some of the medication prescribed for me,
But this stuff is no good, as I can see
It’s worse I’m feeling after trying that
If I was not so keen on him, I would give it to the cat

I’m gonna try the natural route
Healing foods improve my mood
Herbs and spices, what a delight that is
Hot bath’s, healing gels
See what happens here
This is curtailing my work
Is this a message from life
Indicating it’s another line of work I should choose

What have I learned from this disaster
What have I learned from this mishap
That those old sayings, from long ago
Proverbs, is that not so
Were born of wisdom, and good common sense
Everything in moderation
Patience, take your time
All good things come to those who wait
Don’t think I agree with that last one, mind

Perhaps stop studying my body in the mirror so much
Trying to rush the procedure of my posture
Becoming upright, honest and true
No more rounded shoulders
No more kyphosis
Forward head posture
Goodbye to you

Stand up straight, hold your head up high
Look the world in the eye, reach for the sky
Well yeah, but sometimes I just don’t feel like that
If my posture improves, will it put me in a better mood
Will women stop and stare, and ask if I’m actually gliding on air
Would they be so entranced, they’d like to run their hands through my hair
I aint even gonna mention underwear, neither their’s nor mine
What could happen, I would not even dare to imagine

Will my posture, my stance, my walk, my everything
Just have such a confident air
That should attract women by the busload, according to those in the know
Seduction guru’s. Pick up masters
This is what they tell you in their classes
Confidence is King, you got that, and you can reel the women in
Well if you believe those kinda things
If you actually admit to reading and watching such material
To those of us single men,
Some will admit, that’s just what we do

In that never ending quest, to find a woman who’ll be just right
Rather than someone who will just do
You gotta lead, if you want to lay your seed
Show interest, but not too much
Just keep them guessing, as such and such
So they aint never sure, if the relationship is on solid ground
Maybe then they will stay around
Pay little attention to their looks, then you’ll be in their good books
That’s according to the knowledgable
Don’t be needy, cause you’ll come across as greedy for attention, and insecure
Not an attractive combination
‘Your not like other men, they’ll scream
Your sometimes, even kinda mean
Your not intimated by my good looks, and I love it
My God, what a find, your one of a kind
I ain’t ever letting you off the hook
I’ll shower you with passionate sex, that’s really gonna rock your head
I’ll cook and clean, like you ain’t never seen’

‘I pout, you banter. I scream, you ignore
I test you, to the limit. But you remain unmoved to the core
You’re a  dream come true. I’m so lucky to have met you’
This is what women want, according to those in the know
Be dominant and lead, but there is no need to make them bleed
But do not supplicate. Do not bow down
Do not be that foolish clown
Swooning round a pretty face. Women are people, just like you
Some can be right mental, and full of hate.
Perhaps you would have had, second thoughts
Had you known that beforehand, about that first date
So anyways, do all the above, and you’ll never be short of love, alright mate

Are you confused. Yeah, me too
Well it seems to me, you’d need a damn degree
To figure how to get along with and attract women
I’m all lost at sea
I think I’ll look after my posture for now
Get it back on the right side of wrong
Hopefully, it won’t take too long.