Pitcher

I’m such a flirt.

My opened pet-

als fill with dew

drops, saucy fillips

down a tube’s lop-

sided top, scalloped

as any trollop—look

like puckered lips,

arched lids, if not

the curves of fish-

hooks or a turned

up skirt. —Oh, you

would spot my put-out

pout in any sputter

of wind with your fine

proboscis & spiffed hairy

legs. Now, I may be over

-done, but I make-do.

Give you lip? You bet.

Honey, I’m really deep

throated & also noted

for my in-folding down

-ward pointing exits, forked

tongue, spoon-like mid-

riff. I’m never a drag.

I’m so fond to lolly-

gag & giggle, a silly goose,

you prolly think I’m Polly-

anna, another dumb blonde

who worries how she cuts

her figure? Why yes I’m used

to always being on the fly,

alas, with sassy rinky-dink

pink dresses loose & frilly.

Some say I’m cute enough

to die for, a potted mouth

Molly, not a gelded lily, but

a carnivore—I have such

taste; pitfalls aplenty to make

you trip down south into

my slick trapdoors.

I could lap your fly-

blown parts, lick sap &

à la carte your spit then

snatch the chance to

slip you down my hatch.

Every boy thinks I’m quite

the catch. I sell the sizzle

and then eat your meat,

your whole heart out.