When I first saw you look at me, I had no doubt
that you loved my tutu skirts, flaring, swirling out,
my red, orange, yellow, my soft or flaming pinks,
my long, arched stems, that step from side to side,
wild hip twists in wind whistled kinks,
as my loins astride your legs let the rhythms ride.
Strong, spicy musk was my invitation
to join in propagation.
What a partner you turned out to be
when, from South America, you first smuggled me.
Oh, you could keep me tamed in cooler, temperate climes;
you could prune me, hedge me, and plait me into vines.
But I’m the hot lady — whom only frosts can kill.
By my sweet black berries, my colonial will
calls every Fairy-Wren
to spread my seeds where ere she comes to sit
and nurture them with sweetly fertile shit.
So here in hotter, wetter climates, I am queen.
Though I wear flamboyant flowers, seductive as Lambada,
if you eat my leaves you’ll get runny, poopy scours,
and you’ll be puking sick for endless hours.
I will taunt you — be your bane — for I have no enemies,
no real foe among your arsenal of natural remedies.
I am the fragrant honey pot, the femme fatale Lantana,
the comely, fecund, weedy lady
who claims your forests shady.
I will never rest ’til I have won.
227 words —at lambada tempo = 1.9 mins to read at rate of 119 beats per minute
Element 99 