Diary of a Debauched Poet (Anonymous)

Sweetly, she said, in her voice to flirt, 

Hips swaying above her miniskirt, 

“How many girls have you taken out?, 

Tell me their names. Are they still about?” 

And round and round the merry-go-round 

Of accusations, she prodded and frowned. 

“What does she look like? Was she like me?” 

Then she leaned over my desk to see 

What I was writing, “Do you write for her?"

And on your name she uttered a slur. 

“Enough drama!” I cried, “You have no right! 

Time you put your cat out for the night.” 

Indeed, like a cat, she comes and goes 

Until the next time, and when? Who knows! 

Reading my mind, she sighed and purred, 

“You going to miss me, you baby bird? 

Oh how you blush and let out a sigh, 

Open your palm and make me feel high.” 

“Damn!,” she said, “I wanted to say that, 

Now you’ve written it, you’ve made it sound flat."

I looked at her eyes, out over my glasses, 

The drill-down look, I used to make passes.

She knew what it meant, that wicked stare.

Before I was even up from my chair,

She had already scooted away,

Back onto the bed, ready to play. 

As I dived down, around her clasping, 

She howled out, half-screaming, half-gasping, 

And her eyes rolled back into her head,  

As she dragged forth guttural sounds from the dead.

Needless to say, (or rather I must need to say it, for if it were needless to say, then I wouldn't need to say it), the debauched poet or "I" of the poem is anonymous and does not represent okei! :^)