The screeching sound of the metal tin can,
Pulls up around the corner of desperation.
Hair flying, adulation from fans,
You know its nothing but imagination.
Howls from inside echo through the sheet,
Music to the ears, and she gobbles it like nectar.
The door opens, and you're looking at her feet,
"Don't move, lest it should fester."
She speaks in an exotic tongue,
Like the animals in the wild.
She places a strong hand on your lung,
While your breathing goes mild.
The tool, ah yes, the tool,
She wields it like a paintbrush.
"Sit still, you pretty fool.",
She spouts, with an excited gush.
The lion's face peers at you,
From the far side of the room.
While a peculiar broth begins to brew,
And a dark mist begins to loom.
The rhino looks helpless on the wall,
Its horn standing out in the line.
" Oh, be calm you sweet little doll,
This should do just fine."
You can smell the taste of the wax,
And breathe in its visual splendor.
While her pleasure has reached its max,
Through the willing gifts, you lend her.
At last, its done and dusted,
And your face adorns the wall.
Wondering how on earth she could be trusted,
But alas! You cannot resist the caravan's call.
