I see you, looking under there,
at my weathered, leather ware,
whilst playing footsie, little thief,
such a turn off, wedded cheat,
your dishonesty, flattens bulge,
but something else, you can indulge,
in my little guessing game,
the rules, no touching, little Dame,
What’s in the bag?
What’s in the bag?
Please no touching, little slag,
for that is mine, no price tag,
have a guess, what’s in the bag?
Perhaps, by smell, a roasted chicken,
or by sound, something ticking?
Will it feed, or take a life?
Is it heavy, is it light?
Maybe, a scrapbook, memory,
or classified notes of ministry,
is it the root, or shattered leaf?
Would the contents, kill belief?
What’s in the bag?
What’s in the bag?
Please no touching, little slag,
for that is mine, no price tag,
have a guess, what’s in the bag?
Something sharp, something shiny?
A blood diamond, that’s so slimy!
Like the one, that’s on your ring,
in mind and soul, you’re so thin,
But anyway, let’s get back,
A copy of Viz, with six pack?
and pack of Kleenex, for single man,
crying at his one hand plan,
What’s in the bag?
What’s in the bag?
Please no touching, little slag,
for that is mine, no price tag,
have a guess, what’s in the bag?
Perchance a heart, for the world,
Or red button, to be so bold?
Encased in sack, could be the reaper,
Or the needed groundskeeper,
Or simply just, the tat that’s mine,
for in beholder, things divine,
as you gawp, you begin to learn,
there is no game, it’s not your turn,
So, do not ask, what’s in the bag?
You poster child, little slag,
for what is mine, for you, no tag,
you will never know, what’s in my bag!