Sure not all they're made of, but little girls,
with mouths like cut papaya, like cut mango sweet,
can be more sugary, can spoil yer appetite for other things,
breathing, thinking, sleeping.
Skin will remind you of only certain spices,
vanilly maybe, lickish vanilla, or maybe, baby, the red
in her hair will remind you of the color of saffron threads,
that kinda red, the expensive kind. Most likely, you'll
get em all salt water taffy like, smoothly working in waves,
all tonguey, all teeth catching torturous tang...or, oh, unluckily,
you'll catch em all bergamot and bitter orange, like summers
driving into something akin to ache,
an unnice ache, so not everything you've heard of lil girls.
Someone should tell you, soon.
Before you start looking at em like angels,
lil saints and not lil sinners, cause they know how to
put the switch in their twitch, and the puppy in their eyes
working hard to get what they want, poutsome
and pert they'll sho'nuff shock ya, you'll be givin into givin
them your heart. This aint about lolitas, not about
veronica, its about betty, the swift footed girl who left you panting
in baseball diamond dust each weekend, the girl who
slowed purposefully one summer, beggin you to catch her.
Even then they know how to play ball.