The Singer Poem by Adam Latham

She strode the stage in swathes of silk
That swished in synchronicity
To the drum beat,
As in the heat
Her voice oozed electricity.
It coursed the room
With her perfume
In concert with those sultry tones,
Deep in the groove,
So velvet smooth
Like chocolate o'er the microphone.
All eyes were fixed
Upon that mix
Of swinging hips
And painted lips,
Her clientele a lust fuelled fire,
All whetted mouths and dark desire.
Yet in the midst of all those cheers,
The wolf whistles and sexist jeers,
She played her set of old school jazz
With elegance and pure pizzazz.