The girls are drenched in slutty vogue,
in miniskirts, bobtails, the like.
Each boy’s beard is that of a rogue,
his tie not just kipper but pike,
dapper from fedora to brogue.
Here and there swigs a sweary dyke,
a Sapphic pimp with hair aspike,
her masculinity a cinch.
Sexy Marlene’s caught both my eyes
as though she’s loath to give them back.
Those fishnet legs caramelise
my brain, I think my loins will crack
from watching those dolphins of thighs
glide up and down in their string sack
beneath that rump, that peach-ripe pack,
that invitation to a pinch.
A pool of turquoise eyeshadow,
a nebula of rouge on cheek,
fusions to match a mulatto,
mixtures to befuddle a freak.
Conversations rise and plateau
in whispered words about physique.
This Sexy Marlene has mystique,
a kind that causes some to flinch.
A flushing doxy understands,
beating down a spasm of shock.
She snorts a laugh and reprimands,
“Get out of here, you cheeky cock!”
Shaved chest, back, shoulders, arms and hands,
long wig, both breasts a rolled-up sock,
I fumble with the toilet lock
before retreating inch by inch.
