You see her in the office, hair in a weave, heels like a pencil
prancing about,
her Prada fragrance following her everywhere she goes.
She is an enigma to all who behold her
Her aura, filled to the core with allurement
She smiles at you on her way to the copy machine,
You smile back.
Your phone beeps, its the wife texting again,
The bolier is leaking and a reminder to pick up the dry cleaning.
You scratch your head, the money is nowhere in sight
Your life so full of worries, demands and insecurities.
Oh... if only you could get away
From all the stresses and hassles that threaten to engulf you.
You turn your gaze to her again.
She is such a beauty
Now why doesn't the wife look like that?
She drops her file as she approaches your desk
Then stoops to pick it, her loose top revealing all to see,
You jump, ready to help, but not before you catch sight of her twin towers.
You hand her the file, she smiles and whispers her thanks.
You pretend not to notice how her fingers linger over yours,
The so called innocent brush radiating heat up your arm,
Heating up your blood to a temperature higher than the boiling point of mercury
Run my good man run.
Her claws long to clutch you, and entangle you like a spider's web
Once you're in her embrace there will be no escape.
So I say to you again,
Run my good man run...
Or stay and face death in the eye
Know there will be no recourse to life's kindness...
No...
Decadence will become you.
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