Right All Along

Back when I was seventeen
My friend started dating this girl—
I tried my best to intervene,
But my friend, he gave it a whirl.

This girl had quite a reputation
For “making the rounds” here and there;
It seemed that her foreign relations
Were never quite laissez faire.

I said to him: “Okay, she’s hot,
But dumb enough to eat dung on toast!
Of certain things she’s got a lot,
But brains, she’s dull as a post.”

“Not on toast,” he said with a laugh,
“But as you so said with less style,
What she lacks in her fore she has in her aft;
I think she’ll sail right for a while.”

Frantically, as a last resort,
I played my best card last:
“We both know well she might abort
If she can reach some other ship’s mast.”

I warned him too late to give him pause,
He could no longer be deterred.
She snatched him up in her pretty little claws
And flew him to first base, second base…third.

For the first few months I let it go.
He’ll come around, I thought, lie low,
Until his logic overrides his testosterone
His heart, hopefully, still all his own.

After a while, though, I got somewhat comfortable with her around,
She was cool, after all and—damn!—a looker;
And as soon as I let my guard down,
She swooped in and clamped her beak down
That filthy, rotten hooker.

Summer nights, discreet phone calls, always a lame excuse;
Another invite, boundaries fall, complete friendship trust abuse;

Skip ahead six months and twenty-three days,
Our affair is long over, he never found out
And she and I had long since parted ways.
But apparently, he had his doubts.

He was apparently still curious what she had to hide
From half a year previously,
So she did what does best, and outright lied:
“Oh, he was just flirting with me.”

When I got wind of this most recent exchange
I told him everything, first to last.
Then I girded my heart, my brain
Expecting a volcanic blast.

But no: he started out quiet,
The silence was disconcerting.
I was crying, but he didn’t cry yet;
He just said, “That’s not flirting.”

I waited silently on the line.
Then he said, “I’m not even mad.
All in all, if I had to define
My emotions, I’d say sad.”

“Why?” I asked, though in a moment’s time,
I would desperately regret
Dropping that three-letter bomb;
I’ll never forget what he said.

“Well,” he began, and his voice cracked just a bit,
“I’m not gonna say that you did nothing wrong,
But before it all happened you predicted it.
I guess you were right.
You were right all along.”