It's a learning curve, I will admit,
Being the official boyfriend to the Gorgon,
Walking two steps behind as her mirror shades reflect the glare of wanton paparazzi flash guns,
The chorus of orange ladies from fashion magazines sing-songing,
What's it like, Medusa? What's it like turning men to stone?
Nobody ever speaks to me.
Then one foggy Christmas Eve, a tabloid came to ask,
So tell me, mate, what is like, in her glory for to bask?
I clear my throat, I clean my specs,
It's lonely but I love the sex,
When she slips her robe and sheathes her glasses…
Oh, tell me that she has two asses!
I shake my head, she's built as normal,
'Cept for the snakes, she is quite formal,
We douse the lights, I come to bed,
The serpents hiss around her head,
She binds my eyes, we share a kiss,
It's always dark for wedded bliss,
And then her hands, they hunt for bone,
That part I let her turn to stone…
I would say more, but I hear a taxi's honk,
He grins his headline – Gorgon Bonk!
I'm fine with that and stay the course,
But Tuesday's headlines spell divorce.
My world falls in with groans and sighs,
And so I meet my Gorgon's eyes,
And now I stand in propylaeum,
A statue in the Brit Museum.
Copyright © Max Scratchmann. All Rights Reserved