Hark the stalwarts bray a song to heavens far, to heavens seen,
Gone the miserys who dwell in sordid tales of wrong.
Now the thing interred is wrapped in joyous thoughts to preen,
Of *****, substantial thigh pronounced and dancing eyes in song.

She who challenges the very ground you traipes upon each day & tread,
She who walks with  angulation's undulations deftly spread,
She who wears a tongue so sharp t'would slice a hand or dice a fruit
She whose eyes would dance for thee, for thee to seek pursuit to root.

Hold that brilliant thought in cortexed fields of pain, my son
For foreplay in the wildest scheme I've seen to date, has now begun,
And should you bring the very shards of war upon me then
Despite this death, with her envisaged, I shall rise to thrive again.

Marshalg
In vivid recall......of a very tall and particularly comely Irish *****.
7 November 2013