PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Like a French Quarter whore,

you raised your skirts

high above their heads

and swirled them

in your wicked and gyrating dance.



Always keeping your eye

on the money,

you led your ever-following bands

in a raucous and rolicking concert

of wind instruments and howling vocals-



Raising the roofs and shattering glass

with your high-pitched cacophony,

that's music only,

to your own ears.



A party-crasher and a home-wrecker.

A shameless hussy,

you delighted in the aftermath

of your deadly profession,

as you moved your too-fat ass

farther north

for a little more foreplay.



You're no better

than a two-cent tramp,

who's asking price totals billions-

leaving all spent, weary and broke,

but no one feeling satisfied

after your multi-climactic raping.



Was it worth all your energy?

Worth your time?

Worth your now-soiled name?



Did you have your catagorized pleasure

at the unwilling expense of others?



Did you even notice,

those down on their knees-

not to pleasure your watonness,

but begging for very mercy?



Or did you just slap them aside

once you were sated,

with your flailing skirts,

after you used them so perversely?



Katrina,

you're no lady.



But time shall pay you back, Jezebel-

ten-fold.



For it won't be long now,

till your old and withered,

sagging and dried up.



And no one even notices you

passing through anymore-

except as a few darkened shadows

and the sprinkling tears

of a fallen woman.