All the beans have been flicked—
     would it be disgusting
     to discuss them, to account for
     these chicks’ pleas going unheeded—
     to wade tears and layers
     they’ve since shed, fingertips
     enervated red, quaking lips
     onion-breathed and panting, give in

give it to them, and grant
     them this pleasure for which
     for so long they’ve been begging, this
     itch seasonal and demanding—
     making of chased women
     unchaste bandits, stealing
     from handsome prospects lurid and
     lascivious glances, palming

themselves raw, hands running
     ragged crotch-less panties
     any pervert worth assault’s draw
     knows are, for the most part, manhole
     covers already blown
     off, what these broads want called
     “obscene” by most lawmakers, those
     same sentinels of decency

at whom more veteran
     hypocrites scoff, those kings
     of smut inveterate and sick—
     peddling much harder stuff, shit far
     darker than the simple
     lick-and-stick, the classic
     fuck, these vixens humbly request—
     their thirst’s only condition thus:

that once quenched, you drink in
     what you’ve spent, taste its ink
     as if, by swallowing what you’ve
     spit, writing of desire in which
     you’ve writhed imbues it with
     an irrefutable
     authenticity, palpable
     proof that you’ll do what the Muse asks.