The saxophones have stolen from the silver tin

and run riot on her pliant little body.

A forefinger and thumb have stretched young skin;

she grows wet in the depths of her study

where she’s learning  lap dancing and to TEFL,  

to throw a dart in a far part of the globe,

follow the arrow for the precious metal

while her legs and her lips remain in vogue.

It’s closing time in the gardens of the west;

the baton is passed on to feed a hunger.

She’s in a tipsy state and a flimsy dress,

bent over at the wrong end of a conga.

While foreign eyes are leering at his daughter

he’s being treated for Adjustment Disorder.