Lysandra, a bonnie lass,
from fair Eire,
and she right fair too,
never failing to give a fellow a cup.
My intoning, Minestrone trailing from a nostril:
"your Walmarts will become graveyards".
Lysandra dancing in accompaniment,
moving her body this way and that.
The hell you say;
her stopping for some Hunt Brothers,
and me to aver
she shouldn't have her rathers.
From the grinding wheel:
a fleck, a flitter;
ornery men posting nude pics
of their drunken sisters.
Luke, from Kansas City,
come at it another way;
flinging ribs this way and that,
sauce on his shirt,
covering his State Fair champion emblem.
Coming back,
Lysandra pulled her garter
up onto one maddening thigh,
saying "what was that about Walmart, love?"
"My Walmart love?" I questioned, indignant.
"They built a hedge around her,
as if I were some kind of devil,
then filled the moat with Ethiopians."
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