the banquet hall dressed impressions
where ceremonial dancers hop scotch and skip
with twisters waltzing spirited innuendos
as the woman who sliced fresh jalapenos
with her paring knife and bare hands exposed
reached down past the sequins gown of desire
which was as a petticoat junction revived
covering the bodice of fresh musk with raw spice
her secret lips began to burn like wild fire scorching
feeling the sweltering of her own confined desires
sauced with probing pepper fingers reaching for more
the banquet hall which had been dressed for impressions
with balloons filled with hot air of helium's voice altering trance
coffering the punch bowl with Everclear Vodka & dark spiced rum
those cocked tails grew and bulged in tweed panel suits
watching intently as the woman who had sliced fresh jalapenos
implanted the fresh juice of those hidden fire seeds
inbetween the thirsty thighs of a salsa dancer...

Moral of this story....do not touch private parts if you touch hot peppers
or you will get burned...

(Written: June 27th, 2010 3:39 p/m)
© Poetess Victoria L. McColley