Sheree was as out of place
as a cherry tree in a rice paddy.
Her clumsy, clueless hands,
made blind snipers look magnificent.
‘That whore makes lust like a burglar
on the sperm banks pay roll,
dentists pull teeth with greater intimacy,’
MP Judas Goebbels, the education minister
responsible for tripling Sheree’s uni fees moaned.
He penetrated her with his eyes,
as she made her stripping debut.
Sheree had vowed not to dance for the mob
but now she stood before them,
throat moist with bourbon and cola courage,
her pointy tongue darting from her ruby red gob.
Her movements were as graceless
as an inebriated penguin, in a sack race,
but her legs went forever in that tartan mini.
She teetered on the edge of the stage,
as her transparent black thong caught on her high heels.
Sheree’s attempts at pole dancing
were as pitiful as her lopsided forward roles.
She revelled in wild applause for her sumptuous pink jewel.
It was still plump
from gyrating on the best looking drunks lap.
The education minister congratulated Sheree
on self-funding her law degree,
as he begrudgingly slipped ten dollars into her bra.
“Where’s a fiver when I need one”
he muttered to his financial advisers.