Poetry

Musician's Lure

Always it's the musos who pull the chicks.
Witness the pouting lips and flicks
of hair from the ladies lolling around
while the techs are performing the checks of sound.
Witness too the calm demeanour -
Not of the girl, but the singer who's seen her.
He knows what's coming.  Been there before.
She'll follow the band then wait by the door
to the backstage room.  He'll let her in,
then liquor will flow and the fun will begin.
They'll start exchanging compliments.
On him for playing, on her for looks.
Caressing will follow then conquest for each.
Musical sperm for girls is the peach.

Meanwhile back at the public bar,
gentlemen not so skilled on guitar
will stutter approaches to girls not listening.
All too busy with lips a glistening,
lashes flitting at a man on stage.
Hoping to catch his gaze as he plays.
Feeble the efforts must seem from afar -
The men who crowd the girls at the bar
with double entendres and repartee.
Lost on the girls who're far away
entranced by the rhythm, minds seduced,
bodies writhing to sounds produced
by the lead guitarist as he strums and picks.
Always it's the musos who pull the chicks.

Another who's never unable to pull
is the one at the back who sits on the stool.
Laying down earth-shattering beats
that lure the girls from the couches and seats.
Something about that primal bashing,
skins on drums and cymbals crashing,
induces in all a drugged stupor.
Like moths to the flame they head to the floor.
Following closely are men who can dance.
Hoping that now is their time and chance.
But the girls on the floor ignore these guys,
unable to wrest gaze mesmerised
by the raging madman with his drums and sticks.
Always it's the musos who pull the chicks.

Whatever the moment, whatever the song,
there's something else that helps it along.
At the rhythmic depths of the aural vista,
seething, fat, believers insist are
the lines that bring the performance to life.
Bass.  For ladies it cuts like a knife
to the inner organs and shakes their core.
Stimulation they cannot ignore.
Other men may try impressing -
Acts of honor, skill, or daring.
Art or sculpture, famed woodcut?
These may educe approval, but,
while the bass guitarist thumbs and licks,
always it's the muso who'll pull the chicks.

Is there any hope at all for the rest?
Men whose musical talent is less
than adequate even for tapping a beat?
For whom singing in tune's an impossible feat?
Many before have faced this dilemma.
Their choices at hand restricted to either
attempting to learn at personal cost,
faking - becoming a music imposter
or sticking to talents by womenfolk scorned.
Men who choose the third be warned.
Where there's music the women will never be lured.
The ailment they suffer can never be cured.
The girls'll stay listening, eyes transfixed.
Always it's the musos who pull the chicks.