Once I’d confessed I was carnally obsessed,
I felt as anxious as a peacenik hypochondriac
forced to work in a germ warfare lab.
Unable to arrest my compulsive talking inclination,
I was thrashing around in a cauldron of trepidation.
Flashes of disdain in the windows to her huge brain
warned me not to dive inside her with words again!
She said, ‘enduring your hunger for me is too hard
Shrivel up and die like a slug in a salt avalanche,
weedy, weed bouquet bearing, bin banquet, bard.’
After I’d planted a soixante-neuf montage
in the delicate flower of Rihanna’s mind,
she wished her imagination had gone blind.
Her rolling eyes said, men in custom made suits,
worth more than your monstrosity mobile,
are entitled to drink in this vision of paradise,
if their physique is as magnificent as their tailor
and their career lucrative enough
to indulge in their quad passions
of floating palaces and private islands,
floating islands and private palaces.