She stands still,
Michael angelo's lesser statue,
half lit by taxi lights,
Red lips and fish net tights,
catching lanky two-legged squids,
and sharks with hairy upper lips.
Her inigmatic beauty, shooting glances, flirting stances.
She stares with gentle glares.
Repairs men's pride with hands, warm, like golden sunrays.
Her painted, filed nails graze closed eyelids and legs leaving rosey trails like resting chilli powder.
And after, when the party is over, the mind yearns for a cold shower.
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