Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Ode To Owen

Those, go to the devil green eyes,
and hard to shake confidence.
Stop shooting me to the moon,
where gravity is so scarce,
I must take hold of your strong arm,
to keep from floating away forever,
on a cloud nine of sighs.
It's the accent I think,
that makes the picture complete.
Steeped in British tea,
tempered with a dollop of dapper,
and spiked with a shot of sardonic wit.
Always the tough guy,
ready to rock in the streets of Sin City,
or roll out of bed in a tailor made tux.
Got those sexy smarts, for sure,
a striking sense of timing,
and, oh yeah, that voice,
that cool as a cucumber sandwich voice.
It'll keep a girl giddy while you're stealing her goods.
I don't want reality, needn't bother with it, Bloke.
Just want that fine feeling,
when I'm watching you wine and dine,
then bend another beautiful,
served with a silver spoon, starlet,
over rumpled sheets.
Fantasy not for the fragile female.
Your eyes tell the story,
no method acting could ever come close or closer,
to what lies behind, a don't give a damn, man.
Let's take a drive, Clive.
I'll simply sit back and savor this next part.
Ready to play? Be still my beating heart.