The gravid tourist van disgorges prey,
but nothing choice enough to make a meal.
Though as he's set to sidle on his way,

he sees her—those jewels, at least, look real.
He prods a drowsing viper on his arm
and slips into his smooth, suggestive spiel,

which ends with, Touch it, Miss, it means no harm.
The woman eyes the snake, her venomed quip
lies coiled and ready; still, he's oozing charm.

Instead, she licks a brightly coppered lip,
then smiles at him, her nostrils flaring wide
and slowly cocks a taloned fingertip,
which may be set to either stroke or shred.

Most snakes are shy and gentle, he's just said,
when an old reptilian slithers alongside,
enfolds her waist, then feigns at looking harried
and hisses at him, Not the six I've married.