Pip
Withered pip of a boy, now grey and halt
Who despite his gnome-ish looks (not his fault),
Like an ungodly smell, (Axe spray?) he is sniff-adverse,
What the proximate tolerate: he masks a waft that’s worse.
Weaseling into salon or tete a tete – he deftly slips in
Like a drink-palmed aphrodisiac, smear on a sugared rim.
Sawed-off Lothario who says the ladies come to him,
Except for those innocents who discovered his quick whim
Behind closed office doors. And then. Draw the curtain
On their surprise. O the futility of good intentions, the certain
Maternal fury fails as he harems away and hides it all.
Always shielded by the Big Boys – and I don’t mean tall.
Look how lie begets lie. How “ladies” play & say they’ve won.
Yet his lips press fundaments of all who steal our history for fun.
