Tailored dresses, tailored skin tight
glisten under the midnight moon beams
and car headlights.
Such beateous women shouldn't stay in the rain
like this - didn't your mother ever tell thee?
Wet cloth clings to warm thighs,
engendering men to grunt, moan, and snivel
when they go home, lone, smelling
their own cologne clinging to their nose...
And Vermilion clothes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem