Golden hair wrapping and
overlapping
full
breasts on the white steed, polishing
her
stomach and thighs, the lady doth protest,
but
not too much, the taxes of Coventry
as
she, smiling and nude and tripping on sun,
sweeps
the town bare of a husband’s small gun.
But
why stop there, she thinks, as she squirms
with
delight of the loping left and the lilting right.
Leofric’s
an ass, and not one she can ride,
so
she cantors into Max’s upstate meadow
goin’
up the country where water tastes like wine,
where
canned heat is a long time coming
and
fig leaves are unnecessary while people smoke the vine.
This
is a town where the men can be appeased.
No
one turns a head, and yet everyone is pleased.
Handsome
Johnny is stamping on the stage,
and
Country Joe follows the sweet blue eyes of Judy.
In
tall grass the lady lays with lanky, ropey, hips,
ballin’
the jack and jackin’ the ball.
She’s
tripping on orange sunshine again,
and
there’s no tax because the promoters are taking a bath.
What’s
that spell? What’s that spell?
She
has lost the head count after three days of lovers
and
the Fender bass beating back helicopter blades.
After
a year and some days making candles and things,
she
becomes some guy’s old lady with butterfly wings.
If
you see her, say hello, but beware of the sassafras tea.
It
can take from here to there, which is fine if you’re looking
for
a one-way ticket to Wordsworth’s pleasant lea.
~William Hammett
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