Fine Wine and Smirnoff Ice
Someone asked me why I won’t date men my age.
They asked me and I was cast back through time,
on trains and buses,
listening to men my age,
when they think they can’t be heard,
boasting about body counts,
swapping stories like Pokemon cards,
about women who trusted them to keep it to themselves.
I hear men my age,
when they think they can’t be heard,
because my earphones are my guard dogs,
and we have mastered the art of looking unfriendly.
I hear men my age,
confidently crowing about their sexual prowess,
trying to impress and outdo each other,
not seeming to realise that the only cunt they’ll be seeing tonight,
is their reflections in the mirror.
I am so bored,
listening to them babble on,
being so overwhelmingly underwhelming in every way,
but it’s like a car crash,
and I’m glued to the trash TV, that is men my age.
I hear men my age,
when they think they can’t be heard,
and I think,
wow bro,
men of all ages can be monsters,
but at least the older ones have the experience
to try and keep the mask on for a minute.
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