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Swamped
On his high flying bridge, he looked like Flavio Briatore,
His gray hair all waving under a gay tricolore,
He passed us in the narrows, twin Volvos, full throat,
And he smiled, looking back, as he swamped our old boat.
It was all we could do to stay afloat,
And with no one as a witness, it really got my goat.
Late evening in the harbour, I found his boat's mooring,
But our hero was dining, ashore, very boring.
But from anchor at midnight, lit by the high flood light,
We saw our brave seaman, come proud, promenading,
Arm in arm with a young thing, teenager, quite charming.
This scene I found glamorous, nautical and amorous
Which was capped at the gang-plank with a lingering kiss,
Which seemed to persuade the gerontophile Miss,
To try a few hours of rich, water-born, bliss.
But once over the coaming, a surprise lay in wait.
Our Casanova slid headlong, his voice raised in hate,
For in falling he saw, not his hardwood decks gleaming,
Something sinister, semi liquid,
Which may well have been steaming.
Captain Flavio was raging, he really went dotty,
Which scared off the young thing, his unconquered totty,
And all because
No lady loves
Our Eaux de Porta-Potti.
