The Gentleman

A man like that- you didn't want to like him 'cos you knew where it led.
He had an easy smile for everyone; they all agreed- he was a rock.
And when you saw him walking in town, and chucking his head in greeting, you liked the kind of rock he was.
Stable and respectful and dependable.

Except everyone knew he wasn't that at all.
The women knew- and the men followed his progress, though it was never him who spoke of what happened every few nights by his place.
And you respected him for his complicit silence and thought- I can save this man who is almost perfect.

But his almostness touched well...almost everybody, one way or another.
So that when you saw him walking in town, a man like that, you looked the other way- and then watched jealously as he nodded his head to the woman behind you.

Almost perfect ruined more lives that downright flawed, I reckon. And women- because they're weak gamblers at best- will never figure out just how long the odds are to perfection.

That man- he had a roving eye. But the little while it was on you, it was still like a frightened bird.
And in that moment of a caught, shared gaze- it was the woman who swooped.
Now they say scornfully, but with more regret than's moral, he'll take all you have.
Yeah. A man like that, he'll take what you fling at him without a flinch.
And sometimes- he'll even say thank you.
And it was the thanks, funnily enough, that broke the woman.