As her hips sway to rhythm of song,

She mischievously tempts young fools along. 

Her matted mound of curly hair

And viscious, cold, icy glare

Leaves all the men imobile as stone

And wishing they could have her for their own.

But by the time they realize that they've been played,

It's too late. She's on her way.

Riches stolen. Wallet's gone. 

Her real motives hidden all along,

Disguised by ruby lips and flirty smirks,

And a personality full of quirks,

No one ever sees when the serpent strikes.