Poetry

The Interview

Hey! Mister China Man,
take your lusty toad eyes away from my chest,
and focus on what I’m saying about my best,
instead of undressing my respectable black shirtdress,
and allowing your gaze to pierce through my black-laced breasts.

Hey! Mister China Man,
keep your crooked deviant smile away from my bare skin,
and take in what I’m saying about my wins,
instead of ravaging me with your repugnant grin,
and allowing your mind-germs to attack me like vermin.

Hey! Mister China Man,
tie your slimy viny outstretched hands away from my body,
and listen to what I’m saying about my summa cum laude,
instead of asphyxiating me with your clammy phalanges,
and allowing your near-touch to violate me utterly.

Hey! Mister China Man,
chain the one-eyed thing away from the fruit of my flower,
and look beyond the blinding cover and see the heroine under,
instead of pillaging my maidenhead with your shrivelled monster,
and allowing your papier-mâché ardour to crush my hard-earned valour.

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