YRKB
08-29-2017, 01:20 PM
Black limousines don't stop at lights in these streets
nor their motorcade escorts too
and air conditioned inside, the prized possessions of the elite
sit behind dark glass no one sees through.
The Daughters of Fortune, these ladies were raised
far from the city's gutter streams and stray dogs
Daughters of Fortune, these ladies spend their days
in marble and gilt, storeys above.
Painted and coiffed, fragranced, bejewelled
their world is fortress of sorts
but the city beyond it is starving and cruel
and these charmed ladies consume its thoughts.
A racket has risen, where the shirtless ones prey
on these heiresses Fathers and kin
for these families cannot imprison young women all day
from a lifestyle that demands living.
The daughters are ferried from restaurant to spa
from boutiques, galas to Tarot
from Father's head office, to newly opened bar
driven, armoured, everywhere that they go...
but sometimes, their driver will switch at a time
these beauties fraternise inside a venue
a gun to his temple will work every time,
he'll hand over the keys he's asked to.
And when they emerge, arrogant or flushed
ready to issue command
they quickly learn they're better off keeping mouths shut
now the orders are out of their hands.
How alarming it is, to share your leather back seat
with types which you've heard of, not known
that perspire, that stink, that talk at you through their grit teeth
while a hand grips your flesh to the bone.
Who fling open doors to let more of their like in
with scarves masking noses and jaws
lift their ragged tops so one sees what's glinting
in the waistband of their faded drawers.
Who force you to dial and then crow in mocking tones
with curse words that make your skin crawl
wrench you by your hair so your ear meets the phone
and force you to plead for it all.
Who hang up and run eyes over your waxed legs,
your neck, your chest and your mouth -
who discuss taking your 'type' down one or two pegs
and warn you off throwing yourself out.
Suddenly the city doesn't glitter so bright
and doesn't feel so much like play
to discover comfort and convenience can be switched out like a light
alters you a profound way.
Possessions, all that they have and all that they are -
chattel, for a trade
and now for whatever their freedom's worth
a price has to be paid.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown
nor their motorcade escorts too
and air conditioned inside, the prized possessions of the elite
sit behind dark glass no one sees through.
The Daughters of Fortune, these ladies were raised
far from the city's gutter streams and stray dogs
Daughters of Fortune, these ladies spend their days
in marble and gilt, storeys above.
Painted and coiffed, fragranced, bejewelled
their world is fortress of sorts
but the city beyond it is starving and cruel
and these charmed ladies consume its thoughts.
A racket has risen, where the shirtless ones prey
on these heiresses Fathers and kin
for these families cannot imprison young women all day
from a lifestyle that demands living.
The daughters are ferried from restaurant to spa
from boutiques, galas to Tarot
from Father's head office, to newly opened bar
driven, armoured, everywhere that they go...
but sometimes, their driver will switch at a time
these beauties fraternise inside a venue
a gun to his temple will work every time,
he'll hand over the keys he's asked to.
And when they emerge, arrogant or flushed
ready to issue command
they quickly learn they're better off keeping mouths shut
now the orders are out of their hands.
How alarming it is, to share your leather back seat
with types which you've heard of, not known
that perspire, that stink, that talk at you through their grit teeth
while a hand grips your flesh to the bone.
Who fling open doors to let more of their like in
with scarves masking noses and jaws
lift their ragged tops so one sees what's glinting
in the waistband of their faded drawers.
Who force you to dial and then crow in mocking tones
with curse words that make your skin crawl
wrench you by your hair so your ear meets the phone
and force you to plead for it all.
Who hang up and run eyes over your waxed legs,
your neck, your chest and your mouth -
who discuss taking your 'type' down one or two pegs
and warn you off throwing yourself out.
Suddenly the city doesn't glitter so bright
and doesn't feel so much like play
to discover comfort and convenience can be switched out like a light
alters you a profound way.
Possessions, all that they have and all that they are -
chattel, for a trade
and now for whatever their freedom's worth
a price has to be paid.
Copyright Yafeu-Khamisi Rodway-Brown