From the back seat of a circular,

With feet up on the chair beside,

My eyes spied an estatian maid,

A man, slack-statured, by her side.

Of all the tracksuits in the world,

No finer clam could hide this girl,

Or so I heard from whirlwinds in my mind.

.

Her man, a pale and lanky git,

Likely known from days before,

From fallout of a rowdy split,

From this trauma, flora bore –

A rose, hot pink with crimson flairs,

And as I sink through speckled chairs,

Cruel desires tease me the more I find.

.

I could ask her name;

It’d be a shame to leave it all behind.