Forget May, July
January and February
They are all as hot as anything that goes beyond October
No need to have a mixture in their wardrobe
No, on a string tied at the roof
Of the shack down town
A tiny hut they call a house
After all, it becomes a home in the morning
They can as well be under the tree.
You find them at beer halls,
Taverns and kiosks
Wearing faces so innocent
Yeah, beautiful ones
This face smiling there
And those small buttocks
forcing a swing that is refusing there.
It’s just 10 pm
But in dire need of that thing
yeah, that which makes a man tick
Five, ten they handle a single night
With every penetration bringing hope in their souls
Every false scream assuring them of bread the next day
Every ejaculation,
Mainly that one which feed their in-thing
Assuring them of their beauty
Though it is slowly passing on
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