The Gawker

Sat in traffic, late and tired
Surrounded by my counterparts
You planted face in front of mine
And spread legs wide to air your arts

As busy fingers made your aim
The capture of my interest
With visage gurning wild acclaim
Did set your eyes upon my chest

Tongue darting out suggestively
To garner thoughts libidinous
In front of mother, child and me
Was not a qualified success

As rolling eyes and shooing hands
Made comedy of willing wiles
Gyrations of explicit glands
Wrought giggles from our sober smiles

Though not a glance we spared for you
Beyond the eye-roll of disdain
Discouraging displays so lewd
Our thoughts must have been pretty plain

You sat it out with kissy face
And pouted seven stops or so
Embarrassed by so little pace
Eventually you let it go

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