The Hitchcock blonde, sheathed in a scarlet dress,
Curls her sleek body in a siren’s pose--
A cool, aroused, unfathomable mess,
She squares her shoulders and looks down her nose
At all this sullen canine male display.
She’ll slip a kiss to kiss on her own terms,
Return a hug and smoothly squirm away,
Then roll her eyes and think, “Men are such worms.”
But she’ll do just what each man needs to think
He’s her worm--warmly reach to hold a hand,
Pat this one’s knee, thrown that one a sly wink.
She maps her country with a silky hand
And waits. Waits for one of these smitten curs
To make a move, so she can make it hers.
Copyright 2012 Matthew J Wells