Her joyful chatter draws them in;
her swaying hips, her glossy lips,
they dance, they jive, while her mouth sips
her wine, their praise, their thoughts of sin.
The men are bees; they're blunt-edged tools
pulled near by fumes and magnet-eyes,
sucked sweetly in, it's no surprise
that she treats them as childish fools.
Deceptively she wraps round them,
she cannot help but be like that,
for they are drones, their minds are flat;
their words are spittle, snot and phlegm.
To penetrate her thin veneer,
the drone as man must reappear.