Meter Maid

Vita, Rita, our living Lolita

Doomed to live as a tiny girl

Barely five feet tall, a few inches less

An ounce or two more than four stone

A child of twelve perhaps in appearance

A prolifigate of twenty in soul

Skin skillfully painted, stem to stern

A model of imagery, slight breasted

Narrow hipped, popping as she danced

Dissolving in the psychedelic ballads

Of the lovable Liverpool mop-tops

Lost in the finale of a joyful division

Whose love had torn us apart

“Sing for me,” she pleaded

“Sing Squeeze Box for me”

Daddy couldn’t sleep at night

With visions of Rita squeezed

She shied away from full grown men

Knowing that an attraction for her

Was ultimately an attraction for kids

Although to know Rita understood

She was anything but a child

Appearances aside

Leading her to the love

Of immature man-boys

Who could never know the love

Our Rita deserves

For she was a woman of wisdom

Well beyond her years

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in fiction, literature, personal, poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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