The Good Sport

A shame it was about old Bert, they said,
A drinking man; a sport; a thoroughbred.
He'd never mean ill to beast or man or mind,
And seldom would utter a word unkind.

Forget, meanwhile, less-then-perfect Bert
Libido pert; ego-girted Bert
Attractive flirt; oh happy Bert.
Voracious dilettante; ah shallow Bert.

When Bert decided on a taste of grog
He'd shock the bar with cronies' eyes agog
He'd quaff his beer making gin a double-chaser
A glass of sherry made an ample bracer.

Fired with fuel, instead of heading home,
The wayward ways of wine tempt him to roam
The suburbs seeking fun, games and kisses
Carefree coupling robbed from married misses.

Unwise, he fails to see that trouble's brewing
His wife ignores his none-too-secret wooing
She's other interests sank while hubby drank
Unwitting, Bert was free to hanky-pank.

But, matrons flirty meet at eight-thirty,
And plan a trap to humble Bertie,
To catch him liquored and quick to bandy
They mean to prove that 'candy is dandy'.

Now Bert, in spite of sophisticated face
Is prudish, tense and straight-of-lace.
The missioner's position's rule of thumb
Is looser once upon some rum.

The party plans to nobble Bertie
To quell his drunken sprees by playing dirty
To catch him late with belly full from drinking
Bed-hopping Bertie seldom stops for thinking.

True to say Bert might never learn
Until he's well and truly burned
He hangs one on 'til pulses roll
Then heads for sunset matinee, still droll.

Stopping dead, he sniffs the air
As nymphs present their bodies bare
Some nude, some rude and dressed exotic
With hairstyles outrageous, makeup exotic.

First hot, then cold and funny, feeling sick
Bert suffers claustrophobia, panics quick;
Seductive ladies sing and belly dance,
Ringed fingers gesture, vulgar stockings prance.

A guild of giggling girls, a touch too tipsy,
Their heat and sweat and scent would scare a gypsy.
Enrapture Bert with wet and loveless kisses
And take his trousers down with loathsome hisses.

He's perfumed and painted and stands half-naked
No place for wowsers intimidated;
The multi-mirrored entrance hall reflected
Defective Bertie, bottom bared, dejected.

He shakes with fear and rage and shamed aghast
He finds his car and sobers up at last;
He races reckless, gray and looking queer
And hurtles off the end of the lofty pier.

'A shame it was about old Bert', they said,
'A drinking man, a sport, a thoroughbred'.