Not so tough.

You… were a dick.
But you had one hell of a bike
and I could not resist.
Custom built, need I say more!
You parked it up outside my door.
But, you, was a dick.
Parading me round like a trophy,
Your very own gothic.
You had a thing for tights,
fires and romantic lights.
And girls.
You were a tart
and by God could you play that part.
I soon bored of the bike and the clubs,
and the grown up pubs.
You weren’t so hard or rough,
in your leather jacket
my Dad even laughed and told you tough,
as you cried and you cried
and questioned why.
Because, you, were a dick.
But you had one hell of a bike,
and I simply could not resist.

Karen Hayward ©2016