The Good Sport

A shame it was about old Bert, they said,
A drinking man, a sport, a thoroughbred;
He' d never meant ill to beast nor mankind
And seldom would utter a word unkind.

Forgot, meanwhile, the less than perfect Bert,
Libido pert and ego girted Bert,
Attractive flirt and far from callow Bert,
Voracious dilletante, shallow Bert.

When Bert decided on a taste of grog
He' d shock the bar with cronies' eyes agog;
He' d quaff his beer making gin a double chaser,
A glass of sherry made an ample bracer.

And fired with fuel, instead of heading home,
The wayward ways of wine tempt him to roam
The suburbs seeking fun and games and kisses
Of carefree coupling robbed from married misses.

Unwise he fails to see that trouble' s brewing,
While wife ignores his none too secret wooing:
She' d other interests sank while hubbie drank,
Unwitting, Bert was free to hanky-pank.

But, matrons flirty meet at eight thirty
And plan a soiree in aid of Bertie:
To catch him liquored and quick to bandy,
They mean to prove that 'candy is dandy'.

Now Bert, despite sophisticated face,
Is narrow, prudish, tense and straight-of-lace:
The missioner position' s rule of thumb
With alcohol appeasing fears of mum.

The girlie party plans to nobble Bertie,
To quell his drunken charms by playing dirty,
To catch him late with belly full from drinking:
Bed-hopping Bertie seldom stops for thinking.

It' s true to say that Bert will never learn
Until his fingers well and truly burn;
He hangs one on 'til pulses rock and roll
Then heads for sunset matinee, yet droll.

Arriving, stopping dead, he sniffs the air
As comely nymphs present their bodies bare,
Some nude, some rude, becoming, clad exotic
With hairstyles outrageous, make-up erotic.

First hot, then cold and funny, feeling sick
Bert suffers claustrophobia, panics quick;
Seductive ladies sing and belly dance,
Ringed fingers gesture, vulgar stockings prance.

A guild of giggling girls, a touch too tipsy,
Their heat and sweat and scent would scare a gypsy.
Encapture Bert with wet and loveless kisses
And take his trousers down with loathsome hisses.

He' s perfumed and painted and stands half-naked
No place for wowsers intimidated;
The multi-mirrored entrance hall reflected
Defective Bertie, bottom bared, dejected,

He shakes with fear and rage and shamed aghast
He finds his car and sobers up at last;
He races reckless, grey and looking queer
And hurtles off the end of Mordialloc pier.

'A shame it was about old Bert', mates said,
'A drinking man, a sport, a thoroughbred'.

Copyright; Fred Curtis