I need you—she is blushing, closer now;
this is in the limo, en route to the hotel—
to take me in a hostile way. Tell me how
you'll own me. Talk dirty. Say you'll sell
subsidiaries and drive your staff
to penetrate my org chart, stripping
assets and rationalising the hell from the chaff
in the top brass. Her breath is hot. She nips
his ear. Expose me in the press
where my practices aren't up to scratch
then tie me with injunctions. I confess
that being in legal knots makes my breath catch.
Slap me in jail... He's eager for the deal. It's hard
to think. She's already cloned his credit cards.


Ian Badcoe