The Swiss have their chocolate
and groups of rich girls
worse than mag pies never quite
full of chatter like prey on their hunting grounds.
Looking at me as I turned red are ripe Cherry's
sitting down quite as a mouse
over hearing them chat about grass.
Old men gathered around
catering uninformed all were beautiful
as only youth can a careless way
young bitches can be mindless rich spoiled girls.
In her early 40s
she's met by a modest swarm of them
in the warm wooden entrance
wearing a tight navy blue pressured
above the skirt a red tie
underneath the moderate, Pearl White neclace
sprayed across her fanned chest
silk collard blouse,
knee length and pointed black high heels shoes.
To meet you, I am happy, ' she said,
my name is Lucky said I, her name tag read Ms. Cherry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem