Femme Fatale
Yeah, I see what you have accused me of.
Maybe it’s true.
Maybe it’s not true,
but don’t take your problems out on me.
What I do comes naturally.
I am the third generation of the family of the
Femmes Fatales.
It is in my blood.
I am the femme fatale.
I am single, loose, and have no morals.
And as soon as you leave yours alone with me--
whether on purpose or not--
I will proceed to flirt with him.
Maybe it’s consciously.
Maybe it’s not,
but that’s what I was taught to do.
My mom learned from her mom,
and I learn from my mom,
and I will teach my girl
to do the same.
I am the femme fatale.
Maybe I took him.
Maybe he came willingly.
Maybe that’s the way it goes.
Sometimes I feel shy.
I wear jeans and T-shirt,
dress to ankles,
one piece with shirt and shorts.
Or maybe I’m feeling wild and uninhibited.
Then it’s midriff tops,
skirts slit up to my thigh,
a bikini so small you may wonder why I am wearing it.
Either way, I look good.
I am the femme fatale.
Men whistle at me
even when I don’t want it.
When I talk to them,
I purr like a kitten.
I have that air,
that je ne sais quoi,
the unknown that makes heads turn.
I don’t have to work for attention.
It comes natural.
I strut when I step.
The sway comes easily.
I whisper promises of happiness.
Maybe I want him.
Maybe I don’t,
but that’s not the point.
I am the femme fatale.
I am there when you least expect it.
And I am unconquerable.
For I am the femme fatale.