mean streets – poetrytales

She took him,
Off the streets,
And into her home.
A stray dog.
She fed him.
She clothed him.
She bathed him.
She taught him,
The finer things of life.
She made him.
A made man…

Now,
The well fed dog,
The good looking dog,
The clean dog,
The virile dog,
Has just bitten her.
She, who brought in,
The scruffy dog from the streets,
And spoiled it with endless love,
And pampered it with endless care,
Has just been bitten,
By the stray dog.
It is hard to believe it.
It is not for real,
She consoles herself,
Rather belatedly.

The made man,
The mad man,
The man she made,
Has taken to,
Driving around with,
Pretty young missus,
In her red Merc convertible,
E-class Cabriolet.

The made man,
The mad man,
The man she made,
Has been,
Taking young pretty things,
Into her exquisite mansion,
To roam and romp,
Without abandon.

The made man,
The mad man,
The man she made,
Has taken to,
Spending her money,
With the young pretty lasses.
Wining and dining them,
Without a care in the world.

The wound,
That rabid dog,
Has inflicted upon her,
Is aching beyond measure.
The wound is throbbing,
With a vicious pain,
And she wonders,
If she will ever heal,
And feel again,
With tenderness,
And fill again,
With care.

She has no choice,
But to kick the stray dog,
Back into the street,
Where it belongs,
So that, Maybe perhaps,
It could learn and earn,
Some manners.
It matters.
She has to unmake him,
Before he bites her again.
The mad man,
The made man…