One On His Finger
One on his finger, one in his nose;
Crackers and honey, marsh mellow toes;
Voluptuous women, desire that grows;
And what is the problem, he’ll never know
Seashell collectors, wadding through waves;
Tight fitting swimsuits, eyes now enslaved;
And no matter the sizes, it passes the days;
And is there a problem, can anyone say.
Kimono clad women, looking for tips;
Sweet tasting poppers, with hot mustard lips;
Rice wine and toppers, perspiring hips;
Hopeful attempts; served up in quips
One on his finger, a sign on the door;
Huddled together, with tears on the floor;
Nothing to hope for, they’re gone ever more;
But the movie continues, from mountains to shore
Copyright © Leonard Taormina | Year Posted 2011
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