So after our raptuous 
'with-strawberry' encounter
my sweet Chinese Miss 
(I called her Bliss by the way)
took hold of me by the hand,
promising me a poetry reading,
and led me to 'The Dog and Duck' 
a local English Bar cum'club run by
some Scottish guy called Angus -
with a long bushy red beard.
"It good here Wrick" She promised.

She selected a table near the mike
then insisted on going to the bar.
Why? My Shanghainese is pretty
much non-existent I must admit,
but this place was English!

Bliss, in her miniest, floral, mini-dress
was quite an attraction at the bar,

and was clearly a 'regular'.
I sat waiting, watching some
bald guy in 6XL floral shirt
mouthing the words of his poem
from a tiny black notebook.

Bliss returned with the barman, Hank,
Who'd elected to carry our two drinks
to the table behind her... erm... mini-dress?
With Bliss deliberately swaying
her back side all the way back.

What a Girl! I am such a lucky guy!

A hidden MC announced Mr Floral shirt
who began droning a doggerel
about the moon in June!

My he was a master of unexpected rhyme:
"strewn, dune, hewn, June, swoon, noon,
tune, maroon, prune, cocoon" 
He even managed to get
'spitoon' in somehow...

Jeez, what a Baboon!

Bliss informed me he was an Irish guy
who was living with a Chinese woman
she worked with, named 'Yue' - 
(which apparently meant 'moon')
'Oh very appropiate!' I thought.

Then a women dressed from head to foot
in pink - including Crocs, started
reading her poem 'Ode to a Pussy'
but after two faltering verses, 
finally, at the point of a burial
in an Amazon box, broke down

in uncontrollable tears.
Her partner staggered to the mike
too pissed to walk a straight line
and led her still sobbing

on a zig-zag path back to
their table in the corner.

Then came a six-foot redhead
who with a delicious voice read
her poem about never ending love.
What am I like! I didn't catch the title
I was too enthralled by her hair
which reached right down below 
her cute jean-clad derriere.

Captivated, dazzled, dreamy,
intoxicated, mesmerised,
ravishing, alluring,
would have been some of my words
for a poem I'd write about her!

Her voice really was exquisite,
a mixture of honey and cream.
I confess I was in a dream
And when I turned around Bliss
had become my missing Miss.

I couldn't see her around...
nor, indeed, the barman Hank!

The redhead 'exited stage left'
some dreamy recorded music

filled the air (or was I

imagining that as she swept

right past me leaving trail

of fabulous oriental scent?)

I waited while enduring

yet another would-be poet
reading his contrived rhymes
in an overlong poem themed

upon some kind of dream

that was truthfully much more

of a literary nightmare.

Later, fearing indeed it was time
to make an inconspicuous exit,
I approached Angus at the bar
(who was holding the redhead's
hand across the bar top)
asking if he had seen my Bliss?
'No, but I've only been here
since Hank's shift ended' he answered.

I think he was giving
a veiled hint, or is it that
I have such a suspicious mind?

© griffonner 2026