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» Uncategorized » A Superbowl Sex Sting Poem

A Superbowl Sex Sting Poem

As a warning for those who might think it wise to blog after judging a beer competition, I present without further ado a Superbowl sex sting poem for your enjoyment:

‘Twas the night before the Superbowl, when all through the state,
Not a hooker was stirring, who wasn’t a fake;
The cops posted their escort ads on the internet with care,
In hopes that potential Johns soon would surf there;

The police were nestled all smug on their hotel room beds,
While visions of entrapped soon-to-be sex offenders danced in their heads;
And Adrian straightening his tie, and I in my suit,
Had just settled down to field calls about police houses of ill repute,

When from our office phones there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the jail I flew in a flash,
Tore open my law book and had the client rehash.

The wrinkles on the face of the undercover cop
Gave the look of old age even with the tube top,
When, what to the client’s disbelieving eyes should appear,
But a detective with cuffs, claiming her age should’ve been clear.

With a rush to judgment, so lively and quick,
The client knew in a moment the felony might stick.
More rapid than eagles the other Johns they came,
And the cops whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

“Now, DASHER! now, DANCER! now, PRANCER and VIXEN!
Up against the wall! to the end of the hall!
Now go away to initial appearance court! go away! go away all!”

As dry dust from the wild haboob blows,
And rushes through the valley, and goes and goes,
So to the courtroom the police they flew,
With a herd of suspects, and probable cause statements too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard outside of court
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my hand, and was turning around,
Down the hallway the prosecutor came with a bound.

He was dressed all in polyester, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with spilled coffee and toner soot;
A bundle of charges he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
But his chin was clean-shaven, county attorney beards a no-no;

The stump of a pen he held tight in his teeth,
And delusions of saving children encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he when he demanded high bail, like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a self-righteous old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know my client had plenty to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled out all the paperwork; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, to address the court he rose;

He sprang back down to his seat, to the deputies the judge gave a whistle,
And away the defendants flew like the down of a thistle.
Then I heard heard the prosecutor exclaim, ere he walked out of sight,

Sure, maybe it’s almost true, but I still don’t think I’m gonna quit day job to pursue poetry…

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2 Responses to "A Superbowl Sex Sting Poem"

  1. […] minimums that universally secure guilty pleas with ease. Then, I explored my creative side with a little poem. I didn’t talk much about the poor people who get caught up in all of this, though, the only […]

  2. […] Vigilante” Brian Bates (no friend of sex workers) is celebrating its demise, and a Phoenix criminal defense attorney mocked it with a poem which also lampooned cops and crusading […]

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