Salome Poem by gershon hepner

She’s Henri-Alexandre-Georges’,
Regnault the artist, and she’s gorgeous.
Her lips curve with a sexy smile,
and clearly sign: “Stay here awhile.”
This semiotic sign of lips
is signaled, no less, by her hips.
Her hair is black as night-time cats;
no need to hide such hair with hats.
Her shoulders bare, her bosom blousy,
she draws you, even if you're choosy,
for she’s the one you’d choose right now
if only you could find out how
to slip into the picture frame,
performing there an act of shame
that would, perhaps, transform your life,
an act you couldn’t tell your wife.

Her décolleté at which you’ve gazed
reveals round breasts that are upraised,
suggesting you explore and linger,
though if you do you’ll lose a finger––
far less than her last victim lost,
but hardly worth the digit’s cost!
Observe, her hands support a bowl
where, like a football in a goal,
once lay the fair head of a preacher
who had religion, hoped to teach her
about the soul, but she just lusted
for part of him he never trusted.
Though virtuous, it was a fight.
To keep her beauty out of sight,
he hid inside a hole, a hermit,
protesting that he had no permit
to screw around with royalty,
to God alone his loyalty.
She threw him in a deeper dungeon,
and ordered then his head for luncheon.

This story’s true, no calumny,
it happened, once, to Salome,
who caused a man to lose his head
for her—if they had gone to bed
the fellow would have lost his face
but might have thought “Amazing Grace! ”
when kissing lips and squeezing breasts,
before, sans torso, facing guests.