An Ode to a Scantily Clad Maiden

(sung to the tune of ‘sing a song of sixpence’, if possible that is)

Not every man wonders what happens to an item, after a number

Not every man, as it happens wonders

Somehow I detest that term, it culminates all of man’s wolf calls

No, I do not have feminist leanings

But I speak in reverence of that girl who appears  for no reason

In bad taste, they say

She is after all a scantily clad maiden.

 

It is an argument that I can hardly win

She is clearly not the heroine, not even her sister

She may occasionally be the villain’s squeeze

But we never get to know her at ease

With no hint of social goodness, she tries to charm

Valiantly with appropriate endowments

She is after all a scantily clad maiden

 

She, is conceptualized

Not from the mind of a brooding writer

But from behind the desk of a hapless producer

Maybe that explains as to why she never speaks

Waste of talent, they say

Their voices drowning in whistles, as she appears.

She is after all a scantily clad maiden

 

It is clear that there may be no aesthetic improvements

But what matters are her movements

Says the incapable director

The tune quivers badly on the public mouth

Leaving married men with eyes wide open

Women defamation, they say

She is after all a scantily clad maiden

 

Whorish, even is civic taste

For they forget those gyrations quickly

Always ready to raise one’s hand to some other

She now has no relevance

Just like the clothes on her body

Not one left to wish her well, she vanishes

Only to return in sneaky search results over the net

 

 

 

Who is she?

An elastic imagination trigger?

A producer’s savior?

The chappal target of the ‘concerned’ citizen?

The primetime news, when there is no hunger strike?

The ringtone of your teenage son?

The frontline dance performance in a badly managed event?

 

I’ll tell you who she is

She is what will never become your wife

For she will always remain

After all a scantily clad maiden

Now go to sleep.