Gently she tilted her Irish green hair band on her hazelnut main of hair.
The cheeky smile that hid a tail worthy of a lepricorn seemed fair.
Enough banter in the mirror of course if she had been a horse...
she would ride west with wind in hair.
Like a maiden in search of a secret. Robin the rich and giving to her own poor.
No ***** would cross a shore without a bravado of men all hooded like a gang from the Moor.
Of England she would claim her title, dressed as a maiden from Dublin whose happy to hitch.
Finn as air up here in the Alps of a distinct land,
home to a handful of rich.
Perfect pray for little red riding ***** and her gang of blood thirsty ******.