Bestrode

We got many thousands still dangling,
patiently, of course imagining little ol’ me,
ladykind’s studly hero, sweet baby,
as you can only flash them naughty puppies,
hoping that everything will be all right,
yet it quite obviously won’t, sorry.

Here I’m very busy pounding nails,
with my trusty ball-peen hammer,
lining up blondes, brunettes, and reds,
over and once or twice around town,
greatly depending on mood and stamina,
coming before either of us needs the break.

Steel lumped and ferociously swung across,
tiny distractions out of the radio and idiot box,
merely focus tighter my frayed vast resolve,
bolt your voice and simply listen through our spirit,
razing what’s left of this direly seedy flop,
into my truck beyond another interstate oasis.

Birds chirping louder than your trailing dogs qualify,
smelling my oozing fingers to remember a bookmark,
lubricated twine in a pretty bow for our ultimate present,
opening after midnight as delicious shocks in reliance,
plainly taking account of my ripped and toned carcass,
governed exclusively high above our loyal road hog.