Cross your legs
Cross your legs or else
the flamingo dancers will purge
their jazzercising moderatos
for you
, said the fly
to the gilded girl in red
shoes sitting forlornly by the
stairs.

You will watch
Spain burn with
inquisition and the
Catholic jihad sizzles
with the tinkling of
your rosary beads- bury
your dead brilliantly,
as only we (the breed)
can do.

Your baubles have
all broken
, said the
guilty girl to the fly,
cracked porcelain in
hand, she saunters,
ankles together,
sexy-scowled in
the haunted heat.

Cross your legs
or the dirty boy-gods
will come for you.