The kitchen is a little messy for burlesque,
but let’s begin;
shift the chickens, stake that bleating goat,
slide the jug of wine to one side.

You’re home a little early from her bed –
your supper is still bubbling on the stove.
My hair is restless as a nest of snakes,
your shirts are pegged out on the whirligig.

Behold the dance I practice every night,
the dining table is a makeshift stage;
I serve myself up as a ransacked eel.
That girl will learn these labours soon enough.

Don’t you know her eyes are painted on?
The glamour of the candles
will describe solely what you think is there.
The same goes for that cock-a-doodle-do of hair.

For the finale, I shuck off my nylon veil;
my nakedness is lately venom to your sight.
Here’s your ring back, those asinine mix-tapes –
I’ll tear out a rib, return it on an oval plate.