TROY GREER

Tis the season for the snake…
slithering, searching for something at stake.
She seeks her prey and her venomous  bite sends chills through his body at night.

Demonous demonstrations leave the illustrations of several bodies shaken.
She’s something else religious, pagan, the feminine faces of divinity leaves several sensations as she’s  committing sins of satan.

Dam mama say say say. She speaks
with the smoothness of a baby’s skin.
Moving big although she appears skeleton thin.
Bad to the bone. Good bending spine.
She let that sacral chakra shine.

She’s dining with contingency plans.
Step one:
see the subject at hand then send signals to devour the man.
One look.
He slips right into her hands.
Already hooked,
he flies over fast with cash ready to be spent on her.
She wins; her nights booked.
Cuz he just wants to take her home for his sheets can be shook.

Which is all she wants.

Sex is her business, secretary of self she cons the con man.
A sponge, a gold digger, call her what you want but you can’t call her broke.
Cuz she got a fix for what’s dope.
Ain’t no shame in her game.
Which is why plays it.
She holds herself like a goddess.
She moves like a serpent

Hold herself that way cuz she know she is worth it. A far way from perfect, but she know how to work it.

Business as usual. So she shed’s and does as her old skin used to do.