Tamara

My day is just a swank, I dance in the tide, fresh and alive off Burbo bank, he kills me with his laughter, wants me as a bride, helps me ride another breaker, shakes his bony shanks, tobacco blue water on the tide, he’s a writer not a crank, I won’t say he’s famous, but his smile’s estuary wide, ships enter their channel lanes, his soul isn’t dank, who never left a mother’s side, neither is he a windbag, I could produce many Shamans, Medea would use the knife, why bother when you say, he’s mine tonight.