Swivel onto polished seat, fried bacon
left sizzling in my mind, ready for you
my ivory suited princess. I could thump,
slap away your resistance, make triplets
crease under heavy piano bass.
Invent insults enough for a cologne,
just enough swish to fall aside. Easy
gestures, only a means to improve stance
before the next promised song.
Marooned, except for a tinkling archive,
animated over cellar drums. A mellifluous short,
that whistling could only enhance, too bitter
to be lemon, makes a pretty yellow sharp skirt.
Could be collected in a tin, and rattled off,
this blues.
