Cherchez la femme!
With a grin she undoes the snaps
and scatters schrapnel
with her D-size Slingshot Bra.
Her criss-cross support Bandoliers
are loaded with lipstick catridges--
she blasts out a double-barrel load
of Beryl Berry and Honeybee Pink.
Though her hips are as broad and fertile
as the Mississippi-Red River Valley,
her shuffled-off Girdle squeezes
tighter than an Anaconda
With a flick of the wrist
her Shirikin-High-Heels
nearly take somone's eyes out,
And, still moving, she slips Jewelry
into her Stockings, Bolo-style,
to take down another man,
running at full-charge.
Then she spits and licks the tips
of her sharpened Eye-Pencils,
whetting Mocha Cream and
Moss Green darts.
Nearly through, she crams her
Scented Scarf in the last one's mouth,
drugging him to dreams of
Death on the High Plains.
There's not a Man left standing.
All droop in a fatal stupor
as she marches off, Making Love
to the Horizon--
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