Mama's Brown Rug

 The little feather dust

Slow dance around us

Backlit by a bleach blonde sun

As she holds me like a buttered bun.

Ice-cream from the same waffle cone.

Now and then she lets out a li’l moan

As I lick off some drippin’ caramel –

“Mama’s gonna kill me. Effin’ hell!”

“Relax, the rug is brown and ornate.”

“But she really uses it to meditate.”

I see a trickle from her lower lip

An’ my tongue starts out on the suga’ trip.

But she pushes my tongue away

As if it has been leaking all day

Here on her Mama’s brown rug

And what can I do but shrug.

She holds her big tummy,

Her eyes scared of mummy

And she says, “I’m really very full.

And shouldn’t you be at school?”

“Baby, do you want ice-cream tonight?”
I ask though I know we’re havin’ a fight.

“Lyin’ here on Mama’s rug I’m getting fat”

I look at her an’ say “I wouldn’t say that.”

“But Mama says I run too slow.”

Her Mama’s being a big fat hoe

But all I say is “She has no clue.

If you ask me, that’s so not true.”

She smiles and takes my spoon

But cries “Oh! It’s almost noon.

Mama’ll soon be back from school.

This rug is a hundred percent wool!”

So I kiss her very quickly on her sticky lips

As I hold her by her enormous broad hips.

And jump out Mama’s grande French window,

Runnin’ to school faster than she can swallow.