A leisure-suited mogul.
An extra bit of skin.
A dealer at the back door.
They’d better let you in.

A starched and snow-white collar.
Fresh coffee in the mug.
A fetching secretary.
An oriental rug.

A killer app, a Bluetooth,
a line of blow to snort,
ensconced there like a vizier
at the Sublime Porte.

Each woman’s in your harem.
Each man’s a catamite,
an entry in your ledger
that shouldn’t come to light.

But on the street the warriors
gather around their chiefs
to hunt for bunga-bunga.
In boxers or in briefs,

in high-rise blocks or villas,
secluded or in view,
the chieftain’s spear is waving.
He has his eye on you.

Original appearance in Rattle

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