B.. Alexander

The Hard Sell - Poem by B.. Alexander

This charming man you think you know
Sits before you in the fire-warmed pub
This Christmas sucks cold in the air outdoors
As he starts his story with pride precisely

No, you'll not find the hard sell in here
I don't promise too much or talk too loud
Quietly the words will rattle towards you
I couldn't sell water to Africa
But I will sell myself to you, tonight
I'll sell myself short, tonight

So we talk a little more, I keep buying the drinks
Offering some humour, as dark and quick as you like
Maybe they'll call time, maybe you'll have work tomorrow
And we'll head out of here and back to your house

But no, you won't find the hard sell in there
I won't promise more than I can afford to you
Slowly I lay the foundations, set you at ease
I couldn't sell levees to New Orleans
But I will sell myself to you, tonight
I'll sell myself short, tonight

And now you don't know how we ended up here
Between those sheets you've only just cleaned
And you can't say what it was about me
That made you want to ask me to stay

But here we are anyway, in your teenage memorial
Your old bedroom, at your parent’s house
It's barely changed since we were teenagers
Just the exercise bike and old bureau

And no, you won't find the hard sell in here
I won't claim to have more than I reveal
When suddenly you're half undressed again
I couldn't sell weed to students
But I will sell myself to you, tonight
I will sell myself short, tonight


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Poem Submitted: Monday, July 23, 2007

Poem Edited: Wednesday, March 23, 2011

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