A motorcycle rider she,
blond long hair
and insouciant, empty smile
greedy for a thrill;
firm breasts forward like
an emboss of
Boadicea's breastplate!
New, gleaming, stainless
pipes she rides,
the chopper decanting her
like a an old
bourdeaux chateau certan-de-may
uncertain mix with me,
the wildly gone viking girl.
Like the shrew of Lansey Meadows
she beat her sword
upon her naked breasts,
yelling
that the cowardly men not shirk
to kill skralings;
or me to be her palisade.
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