THE GEISHA AND THE CROCODILE HANDBAG.

BY STEVE MILLER.

 

I MET HER IN A NORMAL KIND OF SITUATION.
WAITING FOR THE EIGHT FIFTEEN IN THE BUS STATION.
SHE WAS TALL AND THIN,COMPLETLY UNINVITING,
WICKEDLY THIN AND PLAIN,
BUT HER HANDBAG LOOKED SOFT AND LEATHERY,
SO I ASKED HER OF WHAT IT WAS MADE.

SHE GRINNED AND BEARED HER HUGE GREEN TEETH,
AND SAID IT WAS CROCODILE SKIN,
SO I INVITED HER BACK TO MY PLACE,
FOR MUSICAL CULTURE AND GIN.

WE TALKED FOR A WHILE ON COMMON AFFAIRS
AND SHARED LIGHTLY KILLED SEABIRDS IN OIL,
THAT ID SAVED FROM AN OUTING AT SOUTHPORT,
GARNIGHED WHEN BROUGHT TO THE BOIL.

WE NATTERED AND YINED AND SPAT AND DINED
AND CROONED IN A MYSTICAL YELP,
THEN SHE SHOWED ME HER AFRICAN TROPHY,
A FLANGE PIECE SOWN TO A PELT.

SHE HUNG ON TIGHT TO HER HANDBAG,
AS WE DRIPPED IN AN OCEAN OF LUST,
AND JUST AS I THOUGHT THE HANDBAG WAS MINE,
THE BUCKLE AND SAFETY STRAP BUST.

OH PLEASE LET ME TOUCH IT I SAID FROM THE FLOOR,
OR SNIFF IT OR POKE IT OR PLAY,
AND I TWISTED MY FACE WITH A HIDEOUS GRIN,
LIKE A LUNATIC OUT FOR THE DAY....

THE POKER CAME DOWN ON THE BACK OF HER NECK,
HER BLOOD LEFT HER BODY DEVINE,
THE GEISHA LAY DEAD IN A POOL ON THE FLOOR,
AND THE CROCODILE HANDBAG WAS MINE.


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