Sam Cooke’s birthday
and everyone is
bringing it on home:
the place swinging
and folks singing.
Skirts haven’t been so short
and sayin’ so much
since Ike Turner
first kitted out
the Ikettes in St Louis.
At a wink,
a gal in a tasselled dress
camel walks
to a table,
laden with cake.
Ol’ Sam snatches up
a handful, rubs it
between her charms,
pushes his grinning face
right on in there:
‘Mmmm…THAT’S
the icing on the cake,’
Just then the boys
set the champagne
bottles poppin’,
corks ricocheting
off the walls.
Sam blanches,
his attention
on a smear
of heavy strawberry jam
between the girl’s
breasts.
Suddenly he feels
cold and alone.
This poem is from Tim Wells' collection 'Rougher Yet' published by the glorious and serendipitously cake-related Donut Press.
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