“What’s your star sign, babe?” you slur –
A standard pickup line.
Tell you what, shall I guess yours
Before I tell you mine?
You came charging like a bull
Into a private conversation
So Taurus seems quite plausible
For your natal constellation.
You’re very much mistaken
If you think you’re quite a dish.
Perhaps you could be Pisces –
You’re drinking like a fish.
You should take more water with
Your spirits many and various
And between your pints of lager –
I don’t think you’re Aquarius.
If you’re trying to catch my interest,
I’m afraid you’re doomed to fail,
And just in case you’re a Scorpio
I’ll be sure to avoid your tale.
Were you born under Capricorn,
A horny graceless goat?
Or is that hint of musk and sweat
Just your sheepskin coat?
Perhaps you’re Aries, butting in,
Crowding me in my seat,
But you don’t seem very sheepish
As you bore me with your bleat.
Is your fate ruled by the Archer?
The thought chills me to the marrow –
Goodness knows the damage
You’d do with your little arrow.
Your sideways walk across the room,
Hands ready for a grab,
Your shell impervious to hints –
Could your sign be the Crab?
If you’re Gemini, the twins,
The world is doubly cursed.
The question is, “Two faces?
Which one should I slap first?”
Balance doesn’t seem your forte
Except for a couple of ales
In each hand as you head for your table
So I think I’ll rule out the scales.
Though lyin’ is your habit
From breakfast time to tea, oh,
Your roar is unconvincing –
You couldn’t be a Leo.
I hear your cheesy chat-up lines,
Your crude, unwanted urging
And I can read your horoscope –
You’re Virgo, mate, the virgin.
Notes: The prompt was to write about stars. I went with a horoscope theme.