Ruth, The Truth, Bob, and The 3-Fingered Man (Talk This, Talk That: Revisited)

It’s happened once again

thirty fives flirtn’

I don’t mind, I’m just goin’ with the jive

Flirting

Her red hair cascading down

And bright red lipstick

Spilling wine on her Asian white dress

Right on her breasts

I’m looking down

at her form

and her modeling hands

Her tight twad tits

as Hacked duck is being served

She drops her tickets

I bend down

Glancing at her legs

Upwards towards her pussy

or maybe just her number

She thinks I want a lay

When all she is, is a drunk

A dumb mother fucker

in an art world she shouldn’t be in

I ask her to model

Thinking about the cauliflower

She cringes at the words I mouth

Makes a face and two and three

I discover her insides

By slipping up her skirt

She admits to me

I leave with my Sam Adams

and say...

“You are a FUCKIN’ RACIST!!”

leaving just okay

Drinking along

Observing the owns

All I have to say

Is goodbye today

Give me the dough

Give me the crackers, the cheese, the grapes

Let’s have a black party

a black tie

I am an artist

I’m going to die

She wanted my cock

She wanted his

But she didn’t want Bobs

And that’s what bothered me that night

She wanted two youngin’s

To wrap her aged legs around

Pumping cocks

but all she got

was a bit of reality

as we were ‘insecure’

I put on my pleasure

and held my bible

remember her fish tails

walk out gleaming

of confusion, lust, and joy

and

I say fuck you

Go to hell

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.12.01.02:00:02@NYCNJ