The Prostitute's Interpreter Poem by Sleep D

he hasn't been laid in six weeks
not long really
but for this son of arabic sheiks
it's well nearly
an eternity bereft of creative humanity
some hormonally beseached insanity
cravings conjuring a palace of profanity
so to the pink house we go
while my ethics suspended
the tourists' member upended
and though he'd like a blow
job
he lacks proficiency in the local dialect
and im left with the
job
of subtle translation so the lady can dissect
the polite vagaries entailing his request for a polished
nob
sometimes i feel like my conduct should be admonished
and if when i was young
some fortune teller sung
that all my potential would culminate in a
job
as a prostitute's interpreter
time torn shrouds of angelic youth would appear astonished