Seems it’s doggerel day, all day long. At a stretch, a “prose poem” from last year. And a party boy as a sleazy narrator. I never knew about the big bucks in Bonnet Books, did you?
Getting laid in the back seat of the company car made for some interesting office politics, you see, and there was no prophylactic for the punishment.
A Road Trip…damn.
So, in a hotel bar in a hillbilly hovel moon-shinin’ to fine twang and tempo, bellied up to the bar (if I’m lucky) tonight’s paramour (if I’m lucky) She was all décolletage and ordered ‘em neat, and when the chorus chimed in about those wages of sin she was quick to join in and on key.
Claimed her name was Jezebel and thirsty as hell and on the last leg of a longish book tour. She was, you see—adjusting that skirt just above her knee— She was, you see—a late-blooming-romance-writer.
Said she paid for her kicks (and fine stems they did shoe) and her home by the shore and much, yes, very much more… penning “Bonnet Books.”
Seems from three years to thirty odd, she was as plain as plain could be. Could not have been any plainer. “I was Amish, you see.”
Then suddenly giving in to an itch, she scratched a most unlikely niche, and with required and requisite skill, she has been for some years at will, romancing the thrill of the chaste.
In a hotel bar in a hillbilly hovel moon-shinin’ to twang and tempo.