Seasoned Earl Grey

O, stiffened upper lipped man

Brow bent with a pasted tan

Lend me your ear horn this night

And let my tale take on flight

It was a winter’s night so

More than forty years ago

When with walking stick in hand

And top coat and boots remand

I donned a gentleman’s airs

Pretender of noble cares

A man with nary a quarter

Working for tips a porter

Now a patron of the arts

Dashing suit for married tarts

So long one step I remain

Beyond the law and the chain

I stroll into the lobby

Man in search of his hobby

And take my regular spot

Side piano and teapot

The horsey gal tapping tunes

Of soft leisured afternoons

Melodies for petticoats

Swooning o’re old lovers notes

I’ll have my Earl Grey with pomp

I say to the man, Beauchamp

A server from a French farm

Too fey to be of much harm

He swishes away from me

Leaves me to my repartee

My discussion in my head

Of pastels and buttered bread

Till a woman approaches

And nods off my reproaches

A woman hot on her hunt

Myself the prey for her cunt

O, I hate the forward dame

Buxom blonds are all the same

Hard luck tales from Omaha

My one quarter they will gnaw

But worst of all no high class

No more than an Irish lass

Refrains from gin for whiskey

And spits out poems so frisky

Have I seen you somewhere man?

She asks as loud as a fan

I doubt you have seen my crow

I frequent no bordello

So run along missy dear

Lend some other man your tear

But she simply smiles the more

My protests her happy chore

And rubs up my inner leg

Like she’s oiling Ahab’s peg

I’m the spice in your head lice

She whispers ever so nice

More than dandruff on your sleeve

Girl from whom there’s no reprieve

All my charms so much deserved

Grandiloquently reserved

So much high talk from this sass

A thesaurus in her ass

More than I should have to bear

This dame’s silly words so fair

So I wave over Beauchamp

Escort out this wordsmith tromp

Leave me to my fiddle dee

While I sip my seasoned tea

The server looks at me blank

Like a deer before a tank

There’s no woman to escort

Sir, you’re alone with your port

I look down with much dismay

Seems I’ve finished my Earl Grey

And moved on to my night cap

One more row before I snap

Ah, tis appears to be so

I say just a bit too slow

Gentlemen must sit alone

When buttering their own scone

So put this night on my tab

And help me to fetch a cab

Sir, the boss man begs me ask

When your tab will be your task

For your credit is passed due

Like fowl droppings in our stew

Tis be paid before the spring

Man’s as good as his last fling

As I take my leave from there

I can feel her cold hard stare

Buxom blond from Omaha

Closer still than my old saw

Harlot living in my soul

Reads my life as if a scroll

A liar bred from cheap blush

Charmer with a hint of lush

Warning that my well-hewn life

Will be burnt in coals of strife

If I’m costumed in conceits

I’ll burn crisp with my receipts

From that night on I decree

Never again seasoned tea

I shall live within my means

A man measured by his seams

And yet I must now confess

There are times I miss the dress

The top coats and buckled boots

The dandy sprung from fine roots

When the winter gets too cold

I long once more to be bold

Grab the horns of yesteryear

And ride her without a seer

For chastity warms the heart

But nothing kicks like a tart

And a cucumber on white

Sprinkled with a dose of spite

A toast to seasoned Earl Grey

And the damsels I shall lay

A life of dereliction

But worthy of fine diction

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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