To the masseuse with wandering hands

God saw fit to make me rather well endowed
With a cleavage of which I am quite proud
Now, you can look, but you cannot touch
And your hands are wandering a tad too much
I don’t want to make a scene
But your fingers are doing something rather obscene
The feel of your slimy, clammy, sweaty flesh
Is branded upon the skin of my breast
So let’s get one thing perfectly clear
You feel me up again and I’ll break your landing gear

Chameleon

A social chameleon slides right in
Knows what to say and how to spin
Sweet nothings, chitchat, astute social commentary
Charming and flirtatious, sipping a fine French Chablis

Can change his spots according to
Any genre or milieu
Adjusts his hue and colouring
To be neither too left nor too right wing

When the colours fade back to black
The mask splits apart with a swift sharp crack
Stripped of pretense, not so debonair
Just rather ordinary and rather the worse for wear