Saturday, September 29, 2012

Missionary Girl

At my door again
Sunday morning
Missionary girl

Sometimes alone
Sometime with an old crone
Clucking behind you

Do you only get to heaven
For people saved
Or do doors slammed in your face

Your petticoats
Lace collar and parasol
Would look great
In a museum

Underneath them
Your flesh aches for sin
Your eyes look at my feet
As if I could tempt you

Your face tanned from walking
Your body white from hiding
Nipples waiting to be plucked
Like cherry blossoms
Maidenhood waiting to fall
But withering for no vine

No, not with me
No, not with this
Old, fat, foreign
Married man

With a young cock
Of your blood
Who’d make you scream in joy
And believe in god
When heaven flashes through you

Loving isn't sin
Heaven can be here on earth
If you live before you die

But you won’t
The crones hem you in
Cluck and disapprove
Until you become one of them

Another reason why
I shake my head
Sunday mornings

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