Randy’s getting the hell out of town:
Silver ’73 Cadillac fishtails
a dirt and gravel cyclone
like a meteor chasing
its own steaming tail,
sirens swarming banshees.
Shades wrapped tight.
Arms coiled like pythons.
Tattoo of flame-eyed Jesus
on a chopper riding his bicep.
Randy’s a livewire low-rider,
rompin’ stompin’ ball of hail.
He’s got Natassia glued tight
600 horsepower and high-test gas
tires shrieking like castrated pigs.
He grew up in a shotgun-spackled
trailer with old pappy and cousin Susie,
crib-reared to fight and drive.
Natassia, all halter tops
hot pants, cat eyes and mascara.
Randy says “she got legs
up to here, hair down to there,
she got dynamo hum
in her underwear.”
So they’re burning up blacktop at 110
hot-rod caddy and a fifth of gin,
hard rock wide open on the radio.
Randy’s sideburns, sharp as hatchets,
Natassia’s tongue, worming his ear
like an eel exploring a conch.