Rumbled

Mate; you’ve been rumbled –
you’re not crushed and humbled,
or stumblingly blushing in shame.
It’s the same old game that you play whenever
I catch you together with a weathered coquette,
in flagrante delicto – you know it’s a no-no,
but you will not forego your fumbling foreplay
or illicit delight; you go weak at the sight
of each flighty whore,
and by now you’ve had more
loose women than I’ve had hot dinners.

You may think you’re a winner, but I can resist
your lithe, virile flesh as you writhe and twist.
Don’t pretend to repent; my patience is spent,
you sick, silly nitwit, you’re ticked off my list.

Thank you  Michelle. I had a lot of fun with Photo Fiction #89

©Jane Paterson Basil

Leaves

Please;

don’t offer to brew me my favourite tea,
unless you possess the sweetest loose leaves.

Those bags are abhorant;
their taste does not warrant
the honoured bestowal
with the legendary motto of the late Earl Grey,
who, as you may know,
once was political head of the nation
now laughably named the UK.

Loose leaves are a fragrant,
attractive, and blantantly
vastly superior, exquisite treat,
to feeble tea sweepings, both tasteless and sad,
so slyly concealed in a pale, perforated,
limp paper bag.

Please, don’t be confused
between
tea that’s infused
— a spoon for each person and one for the pot,
in water that’s steaming and scaldingly hot —
so lovingly strained, poured into a teacup
of fine bone china or slim porcelain,
daintily lifted and sipped at my leisure,
caressing my palate with citrusy pleasure…
and
dust that is dumped in a thick, chunky mug
— printed with some vulger caption or image —
to be vacantly swilled or unwillingly gulped.

The Daily Post #Infuse

©Jane Paterson Basil