“Don’t worry, he’ll punch himself in the face,” lady luck said.
That bitch has been on my case
for over a decade.
We haven’t made love, yet
But she tempts me, with chance, with her charm
that she carefully hides
her silk panties.
You can’t sneak-up on lady lucky.
I hide in the bushes, and wait for her
but it’s like she has female radar.
Three male friends
walk her to her car.
Does she know I’m here?
She turns her head, and looks into the bushes.
Then she gets into her brand-new Mercedes.
Was that a smile?
Her body guards choke on her exhaust,
as they walk towards me.
“Hey! Were you spying on lady luck? You can’t look at her without our permission!”
I put my binoculars away.
It’s just as well… she carries pepper spray.
The next day, I decided on a more proactive approach.
I learned her schedule.
I staked her out.
She always jogs in her short shorts
near the beach
where the guys leer at her.
I could chase her
and catch her,
but she saw me coming
from a mile away,
and ran faster.
It ended with me, feeling
like I was going to die.
Lady luck is a bitch.
When she smiles at you,
you think you’re going to be able to scratch that itch,
you end up scratching yourself.
To all the men who scratch themselves:
you don’t need lady luck.
She is more trouble than she is worth.
To write a poem from your guts
than being praised by her.
She always wants the next hot thing.
She doesn’t want the truth, if it’s ugly.
All I see is ugliness around me
and a few
I will write about them.
So what, if lady luck thinks I’m a loser?