The lothario

Poetry

Pacing the street I stop; crouch on my feet and watch my prey.
Feeling my heartbeat drop as I dodge the alley’s urban decay.
Then I grin.
My heart full of sin as my first victim comes into view.
Tottering on tiny shoes like a porcelain doll.
She’s a tasty morsel, of course I fix eyes on her as my ultimate goal.

Good Lord… she’s so helpless.
Stalking her’s no game of chess but a turkey shoot.
There’s no sport here. The point is moot, I must move on.
I slink down the alley my lust not sated, I’m just not done.

Then I spy another.
This one here, she’s a wildebeest.
Chatting to her friends half asleep, she’s a basic target.
This is too easy.
I hang back and weigh up my chances.
Whilst I’m king of the urban jungle and these streets are mine, at times I must know when to face defeat and when to draw the line.
But it’s fine.
Not every hunt should mean it’s killing time.
Half the time, all I’m looking for is a sign.
Something to break the cycle and shake things up.
Some real sport to test me, where I get to prove I’m the best breed.

But what’s the point of being top of the food chain if you’re constantly tormented like you’re having a bad day?
However, I refuse to be thwarted.
I’m lean, fighting fit and ready to hunt.
Bring on all foes you mothers I’ll face many at once!

And the night is young so let’s see where things lead.
The truth is… It’s hardly a good night’s work if on some level I don’t bleed.
But that’s the life of a proud old lion.
None of this ‘let bygones be bygones’, I’m taking you down.
We’ll fight round and round until one of us hits the ground.

Have to say though, I kinda like my battle scars.
I’ll rattle your cage with my aggressive ways and leave you broken and marred.
Right this minute though the time to talk is over, I’ve now fed.
Time this old lion bowed his head and went to bed.
Because I’m contented.
And right now I lack incentive.

Tomorrow though, that’s another story.
Back on the beat stalking the street in search of my next quarry.
So stay on a swivel if you don’t want it to be you.
If you don’t… a grisly fate will await you, you’ll end up as my food.

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