He walks these parts without his coat.
Wrap my feet in lily pads.
O how I love Midsummer’s Night.
This fight never should have happened.
Your boot prints in virgin snow.
Blessed God hewed figurines.
Clothes pins gripping dungarees.
All the women walk along Waikiki Beach like models on a runway.
And snap the sinew in God’s neck.
In nothing but one stocking.