Under the Belt
In honor we can stand together for the departed ones.
No tears or shame here; all nature sees is duty call.
At the rear, The Kilt deceives; the spies sneak.
Gospels of morals, ethics and truth, sidelined.
Those are pincer moves, from the decorated ones.
Gold, Silver plaque row: Commander’s crush?
No Captain can do very wrong, as he pace’s, places,
His ship along side a foe assault: Fair, power scoop?
Rate those, three-decker’s: 51 broadside rounds.
Flag ship in the line, gleaming heated fire balls.
Arrogance. Call’s the master at arms, eager waiting,
Run out guns, ticking beats, sizzle balls in hand.
O! Olea fragrance; shouldn’t one steal your breath,
Cast you in double yellow hues of smiling Petunia.
Ink you a friction, in colourful threads of truth.
Reveal magic, in the melodies of the erotic Moon.
Faithful, you can rift: embarrassment is on the drift.
Hear your tin clatters sing, on kilt’s captivating wings.
Can I bear should you wilt? Yonder perceive those winks.
Fair-one, ‘love or war’ I can see the Broad Pendant sink.
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