A Timbuktu Peasant From The Street Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

With bottle tops and a watch strap woven in her hair
She's an enchantress; she's a witchy affair.

Her full lips pout, pushing forward and blushing gold.
Poorer than a jackal, too proud to be sold

Eyes full of intrigue, they're the portals to her soul.
She's been here before: too difficult to control.

Men kneel at her feet; Kings bow in defeat:
She's just a Timbuktu peasant from the street.

Her allure is regal, her pride unwavering.
She won't eat with pigs; her life is meant for savouring.