SH ( / )

Foreigner In Italy

They love my skin.
“Sweet, sweet brown sugar”,
They say
Their hands running down my back.
“Smooth dark treacle”,
They say.

They love my hair.
Long, long braids
Down below
My cropped top.
Beads jangling
When I shake
My head.
They love the way
It sways,
They say.

They love my breasts,
So full and fresh.
“Juicy grapefruit
Waiting to be squeezed”,
They say.

They love my legs.
Strong and firm.
Muscles taut,
“Like a race horse”,
They say.

They love my arse.
Well curved and plump.
So different from their wives’
Skin and bone,
They say.


They love my smell.
Heavy perfume
I wear
Just for them.
It makes me sick.

I despise them
And their pitiable lives.

Go home you men.
Go home in your big cars.
Go home to your cold respectable wives.
You stinking Italians.
But come tomorrow
And have your fill.
Each filthy euro you pay
Is another shining new tile
In my house back home,
In my Africa.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 5 votes ) 8

Comments (8)

They call them working girls/women, I heard. A great truthful write, Sallie. Regards Naseer
We do what we must my friend! Is this any different than going to a job....using one's body in exchange for a paycheck? Just wondering. Be well.
Money can buy a house but not a home, buy lust but not love, buy excitements but not happiness, etc. Yes those Italians must have been deprive all these! Great poem, sad but powerful! A 10.
you have done it..........this has done it..........I have done it.......at last my pleasure....please take my ten marvellous delightful........just truly good writing...........and I was captured
This is brave and poweful writing Sallie, great stuff. Hugs Anna xxx
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