One must admit,
you just have to like a woman
who loves to screw.
A woman who can tighten the Windsor knot
around your chicken neck,
making sure the slurs you speak
are the ones she has been
anemically starved to hear.
Because men are always doing the same things
over and over; ending with the prepositional
cleaning of our sonically brushed teeth.
Theoretically a woman must know how to grease the pole
and slide her way onto the floor in a split,
where we can reach out and stuff our worthless dollars
into her G-string full of valuables….
2008 © TS
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem