Poem – The Music

She locks it, pops it,
Drops it low.
Bumpin, Grindin,
Rides it slow.

The music breathes
Through her pores,
Effuses her senses,
The club is her atmosphere.

She locks it, pops it,
Drops it low.
Bumps it, Grinds it,
Rides it slow.

Rides the beat,
Grinds to the base,
Diffuses her tension,
Lets it go.

She locks it, pops it,
Drops it low.
Bumpin, Grindin,
Ridin’ slow.

She’s not there for love,
She’s there for fun,
For a carefree night of booze, friends
And maybe a cheap hookup.

So she locks it, pops it,
Drops it low.
Bumpin, Grindin,
Rides it slow.

The music, the hypnotic beats
The club breathes as one whole entity,
And she’s lost in its private world.
She knows not of herself, only of that conglomerate.

She locks it, pops it,
She drops down so low;
Bumpin, Grindin,
Rides it slow.

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