From the tips
   of her fingers
    
To the heel
        of her soul,

One greedy woman.

  She asks:
      
"Teach me how to
       dance on graves,

        Show me my insides out,
           Preach to me of the ungodly.."

" I will not"  I said.
      "Look to another, I am
           unavailable.
              
           You would have me
                 be Sisyphus while you
                    take the Queen's throne."

Inviting all to ponder
    as you wear only a thong,
         your ******* slightly hidden in the shadow....

Your hiss is threadbare,
      just audible to those
                 in spitting range.

All is not
    welcoming
      with me,
        I was once blind
           to  your  level  of   fuckery.

No more says the man
that guides the boy within.

I have grown
   on the shoulders
       of what I once was.

To me
   your voice
      is the sound
              of two cats fighting.

What right do I have
     to dance on the dead,
             let alone show you.

If you're going to ride my ***
you could at lease pull my hair.
She was pushin' 55 when
the bumper sticker caught my eye,
she was at the controls of  
a disturbed yellow Datson
with Nova Scotia plates,
a combination of rust red and bright yellow
sliced down the middle with one wide strip of black,
heel to toe, and tinted windows to boot.

1970 Northern Canada, hundreds of kids
thumbin' from East to West and from West to East.
I shared the Impala with two young ladies  from Ontario,
and  the driver was friendly as hell, as well as being deaf...

The Datsons bumper sticker now a pleasant memory..
Today there are fewer travelers and many being unemployed ex-cons and dyed in the wool Hobos harboring severe alcohol and drug problems... you could say that it's no longer safe.

My travelling days are  over..
I left them 30 years in the dust.
I really have seen the last of those,
today when I go, it's not long before I want back..
I miss the ocean, and the Atlantic  is my choice.  
The Pacific smells of dank wood with all the tall furs
and the logging industry.  Give me my camp fire on the beach,
I'll wash the salt away before I jump in the sheets at the days end.
My skin being golden brown from a close enough Star.