African Touch And Russian Cure Poem by Rajendran Muthiah

Do you have sense my dear wench?
You shouldn't reach me soon to drench
in destitute situations dire.
A leap off Africa from mire
isn't fair the old man's hands to clench.

The pedicurists my heart wrench!
your touch pushes me in a trench
and kisses me to fall in fire.
Do you have sense my dear?

A manicurist to retrench
from her land yearns, and to avenge
poverty, likes me to hire.
Tattooists too, to me wire.
The maids mail me my thirst to quench.
Do you have sense my dear?