THE SULTRESS
She slips off her glove and lets it fall down
And with a swish of her hair she slips off her gown
Her eyes say it all in their intense stare
Raising her fingers to brush back her hair
Her lips are parted as if to smile
But instead she speaks as if known you a while
An instant rapport, she knows her craft
You are seduced in heady perfume waft
A slave you are to her desire
Your soul is alight and wants on fire
Her touch renders you powerless, her lips a poison sweet
You take the bait and follow her meek
And when she has taken your soul for her collection
She'll discard you with a click of her Louboutins
MPB ©
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