Carefully undo them magical buttons,
as quickly as they all wanna a show,
don’t risk heeding your required needs,
inside this farcically sexless transaction,
limping toward your boasted climax.
Don that fright wig for your rusty ladle,
chasing down any dirty vigorous stick,
here only to lap up what they’re serving,
for some pathetic token pat like a dog,
while you alone stroke your own belly.
A cage you mostly built is enclosing,
lying naked over piles of furs and heels,
not realizing their true sacrifice early on,
taunting with every convened mistrial,
drunk from juice electrifying them bars.
Spread your rancid butter ever thinner,
pluck them feathers in their boiling water,
bow after your cold matinée contrivance,
gushing a checkered smile in the mingle,
prodded when crawling for your change.
Keeping always your place and distance,
within leashes forged of chains and cuffs,
gilded in riches heisted from dime stores,
lead to your sordid audience’s reckoning,
of whether you fend now or in them streets.
Sharwrong's Song 