Alan is a student
Of seduction's subtle art.
He's intelligent and prudent
And he's never short of heart.

But he always seems to stumble
When the theories come to practise.
Each pass becomes a fumble
And he's treated like a cactus.

He used his best techniques
On an architect called Grace,
But according to press leaks
Nothing news-worthy took place.

A little birdie whispered,
A homing pigeon said,
"If you want the thoughts of this bird
You should feed her bits of bread."

He didn't need that thought.
He hid it in his head.
The artistry he sought
Was displayed by Uncle Fred.

His uncle is avuncular,
Producing cheerful prose.
When he's slightly drunkular
His words wear fancy clothes.

He slurs and spells his words
With an extra syllable
Under circling stars and birds
He's still intelligilable.

Alan watches closely
At a party well advanced,
Where his uncle's words are mostly
Alcoholically enhanced.

Standing tall and angular
Above the lovely Deb.
His well-dressed words entangle her
In his charm's fine web.

Deb has left her 'orah'
With her overcoat tonight.
He can only say 'hoorah'
At the way her words dress light.

The aura she is elegantly
Wearing all around her
Would make car lovers sell a Bentley
Just so they could hound her

With the most expensive gifts,
Like a trip to Monte Carlo,
Or a string quartet in lifts,
Or a poodle for her scarecrow.

But nothing they could buy her
Would distract her from the gaze
That has set her heart on fire
And has switched her head to 'daze'.

According to the pigeon
This devotion's not irregular.
It's almost a religion
But he says it's strictly secular.

They're parted for a minute
When he goes to get more booze,
An eternity, and in it
Alan gets his uncle's views

On how to be a weaver
Of a web that is enveloping
And not sound like a cleaver
On a violin or cello string.

His uncle is emphatic:
"Leave your studying behind.
Put your textbooks in the attic.
Say whatever comes to mind.

"If you have to think you'll err.
Let instinct be your God.
Let one seductive wink rule her,
The string to make her nod."

It seems like sound advice,
And he sees an opportunity
To try it and entice
Someone special into unity.

There's a woman by the window
Who he hasn't met before.
He lets his favourite grin show
As he sidles 'cross the floor.

There's a mental pool of words.
Some are in their best attire.
They've formed a line like birds
On an overhead phone wire.

Without thought interfering
They're released into the wild.
He says, "I ate a key ring
When I was just a child."

Doubt's army in his head
Is already laying siege on
His confidence's garden shed.
But she just speaks Norwegian.

Her smile defeats all doubt,
Without a death or hostage.
All his stories are let out,
Like the time he fought an ostrich.