Little Miss Kettle Head


I heard, wet mop splash, on the floor
“I too, am a woman, won’t you, look at me, Sir!”
A tattered, black maid, hurled at me, this metaphor –
Colorblind, turns men, their, seminal hunger!

Her sweat, stank, thru her, threadbare chemise
As she dared, to face me, with a, bold grin
I wonder, if she, brought me, down to, my knees
Homealone, every man, wants a reason, to sin!

She was, no more, my “black prejudice”
I was, no more, her, “vain white pride”
We squelched, thru her sweat, into throes, of bliss
Beyond nudity, was that beauty, I never denied!

When the, orgy died, returned disdain
“Why’s, a black vermin, squirming, in my bed”
She smirked, at me, with a, shade of pain
And a tear, she shed, Little Miss Kettle Head!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra

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