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He looks at me intensely
Contact lens green with artifical envy
Cocks his head and fixes me with a condescending stare
Flicks his bleached, blond tipped hair
And theorises thus

You know what I reckon?
Pause for effect
Adjusts his tackle as if it’s semi-erect
I feel I’d better give him what I know he expects
What do you reckon?

A hand on the shoulder
An avuncular wink
Sips his lemon drink
Spits out the pips
Hands on hips
Licks his lips
Like a wolf near a flock
Yet again adjusting his fantasy cock
He delivers his philosophy

I reckon it don’t matter
It don’t mean squat
What you earn or what you got
Or the style of your hair
Or what you wear
It matters not

Like what do you care
That I live on a hill with views of the beach
That my chick and my dogs have an ... Читать дальше »
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