The red robed whore bares her stomach to get it scissored
In closed-pavilion, the reeking clots she desperately cuddles
During the hours when darkness sets the moonbeams blurred
Because the bastard in the city of saints deserve some respect
Look at that hefty, thick lipped she-male?
Who tarnishes the last bone of cigar's ash
When ax-edged droplets of pan are spat on her face
And whole night the she-male prays for nothing
But to be a Ma of a complete human
The Queen of the Jungle, while, is the Queen of the gore
Benumbed and blind, she watches ‘Man of her life’
Rummaging through the thirty teeth, picking his furious four canines
To tear down and incise his son's last crumb of flesh
Not frightened of the sun, not scared of the woods
The Queen of Jungle stands like an unmoved stander
Dead to the fact this cub had more than half of herself To win his love, his numbered nights and days. The cub's breath is traded-off on cheap bargain
Paras Ali/2017
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