Foreigner In Italy
They love my skin.
“Sweet, sweet brown sugar”,
Their hands running down my back.
“Smooth dark treacle”,
They love my hair.
Long, long braids
My cropped top.
When I shake
They love the way
They love my breasts,
So full and fresh.
Waiting to be squeezed”,
They love my legs.
Strong and firm.
“Like a race horse”,
They love my arse.
Well curved and plump.
So different from their wives’
Skin and bone,
They love my smell.
Just for them.
It makes me sick.
I despise them
And their pitiable lives.
Go home you men.
Go home in your big cars.
Go home to your cold respectable wives.
You stinking Italians.
But come tomorrow
And have your fill.
Each filthy euro you pay
Is another shining new tile
In my house back home,
In my Africa.
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