Gong, gong goes the bell
Of the lousy, noisy town crier:
There’s going to be a fashion parade
A beauty contest at the village square
The qualification
Easy to meet
A dazzling damsel
Tarmac-ed with wizened hide
Pitched with gnarled vocal cord
Must be a friend of showy Hezekiah
And close associate of vaunting Xerxes
Ready to divest herself
Of her humble garment
To feed the eyes of the world
With her naked beauty
When opportunity
Comes stumble-knocking

Hers, a wavy hair
Meandering like crooked path
Beckoning fringe
Waving down her customer
And enticing face
Lighted up with heavy cosmetics
Her figure
Like eight,
Bulbous
Under sinking neckline
Voluptuous
Above skimpy denim skirt,
Like vulture
Devours the wanton
With rapture
The wanton
Looked
Until lured
And lost
No covenant with the eyes
To let lying lust lie

Abiodun Soretire