Slut Shaming by Maj Ikle

Like rose petals on a mountain-top
She is delicately exposed
Wafting earthly erotic embers
Scenting our air with desire
Soft lips tremble yearning
Bare of the spittle
That flies frothy from
Your stiff metal gob
As if shame is your job
To cover her up lest she
Sets the whole world on fire
But how many names
Does one language require
To slander women
For glittering with sexual salt
Tell us mr policeman plod
Who died to make you my
Daddy god?