The Afghan women, dreading stones,
don sacks of baggy black,
concealing them from crown to sole,
excepting narrow Brink-truck slots
through which the men folk let them peer.
As fashion statement,
Westerners abhor this garment,
ignoring its advantages:
A bee sting bosom, blemishes and baldness
No longer permanent disasters,
legs and arm pits now escaping
the razor’s rough abrasions.
Hearty appetites, as well, can be indulged,
ballooning bellies tidily concealed..
The burkha also levels mating rivalries:
be ladies gorgeous, gruesome, crone or teen,
all appear as shapeless silhouettes.
And men, rendered now impassive,
exhaust testosterone on other aims:
blowing up a synagogue or trading camels.
But Western women cannot hide their charms:
Fashion dictates leg displays and deep décolleté,
thus goading men, albeit guiltily,
to peek down blouses or up short skirts,
neglecting jobs to dream all day
about the parts they almost saw.
And Western women spend huge sums
on lotions, paints and powders;
waste hours dyeing, curling, straightening,
spraying, waxing, shaving hair;
running miles on treadmills
in fear of summer’s festival of flesh.
W/omen now envision careers,
of being managers or CPA’s,
and rue lost time and self-respect
when skin-tight skirts and bobbing breasts
force them to flee or mollify—
or gratify—a salivating CEO.
How comfortable and safe they’d be
if clad in Eastern anonymity!
And men as well would find the sack a boon,
their job attention deficit diminished,
potency and phallic length almost forgotten.
And picture if you can
the monumental wedding night,
or any night agreeable to both,
when burkhas finally drop:
Bikinis cover very little
but any burkha cast aside —
no matter if it gets from males
a lusty cheer or disenchanted curse —
is bound to be — at least –
an awesome revelation.