Piacere, Miss Mahroug, he warbles with a grin,
And clasps her supple, rounded hips with withered, olive skin.
My man in Marakesh has said you move like liquid flame.
Karima curtsies, ever coy. I try to entertain.
Falling on a gaudy chaise he gestures to the stage.
Prosecco dribbles down his chin (but such things come with age).
Would you like for me to dance? She kicks away her shoes.
Berlusconi licks his lips, Just how could I refuse?
His loins are set to bursting with her every twist and thrash
And from a vero cuoio pouch he draws a wad of cash.
Every word I've heard is true, you really are sublime,
Enough of all these pleasantries; it's bunga bunga time!
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