Birthday Suit

French crepe on a spring afternoon

Battered marmalade smothered prune

All decked out with her winsome grin

Only the best this telltale spin

A chance clothed in her birthday suit

Flitters out a song or a toot

Lures you in to her faceless charm

Her Arabic sand nicknamed Sharm

Bereft of soul she mirrors yours

Her face a hall with many doors

In every room you find yourself

Clad in the high airs of an elf

Her nakedness a quaint mirage

A dancing Hindu surnamed Raj

Perchance an Oriental Sheik

A Mata Hari with her chic

Regardless who she is today

For this French crepe your soul will pay

Doled out in battered marmalade

So sweet the sorrows you will trade

All to tryst with a birthday suit

Her facelessness her most prized loot

Woman clothed in hell’s high fashion

Despair her lure and her passion

Published by Michael Sean Erickson

I write, act, and produce films in Los Angeles. Everything else is conjecture.

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