Poetry Wears a Mask

Poetry is like a hooker Wearing a tight Pink flamingo skirt, Red high heels, with Black fish net stockings, Standing on a street corner, Waiting for the next customer, To make a purchase Man, poetry is a ****, She hits you in the gut While she earns her pay, She put on the red light display The hands of night removed her gown As the gray-blue, moonlight touched the earth, They both laid down in the sweet taste of sin When poetry wears her mask, again