Lord Byron

he looked like Lord Byron
or he said he did,
I don’t know what Byron
looked like,
I couldn’t even read
him,
but Albert was tall,
fairly well-built
and he had this bright
yellow hair,
a whole mane of it,
and his eyes were a
fierce blue
and he had a well-
modulated English
accept
and dozens of
women.
he professed to be
a writer
but I never saw
any of it.
I have no idea
where his income
came
from.
but he always lived
in well-furnished
apartments
with some young
lady of fair
education.
and as I met him
on and off
through the years,
he became older
but his ladies
remained about
the same
age:  22, 23,
24.

if there is a point
too all this
and there may
not be, well, it was
that Albert loved
to drink
and I was perhaps
the heaviest
drinker he knew
of
and he would
invite me over
to imbibe with
him.

it may have been
the contrast–
I was ugly and
crass, I’m sure
I made him look
all the better
to his ladies.

so I would crank
up the old car
and drive over for
the free
booze.

it was always about
the same:
Lord Byron couldn’t
hold his drink,
kept running to the
bathroom to puke,
although I was
outdrinking him
3 to one.
at which time,
puking time,
I would make a
play for his
lady.

“come on, babe,
let’s work a
quicky while he vomits  his
guts upon the
tiles and the
toilet
seat.”

“you are a
disgusting
man!”

“thank you,
mam.”

then Albert would
exit pale from the
bathroom,
go to the bookcase,
pull out the works
of Keats or Shelley,
read us
one.
or he would go to
his sound system
and gift us with a
bit of
Vivaldi.

Lord Byron and I were
direct opposites:
he too sensitive to
live in the world
and I too thick to
understand his
pain.

but I was poor and
the drinks were
free
and I got to look up
the finely crossed legs
of his numerous
ladies,
so it was a fair
trade
off.

until true to his
delicate calling
he suicided one hangover
morning
upon a purse full of one
of his ladies
pills
and I had to find another
jack-off to
milk free drinks
outa.