A GUINNESS
Why, Lord, are women so beautiful?
Near Galway once in a pub I met
a bar-girl, Botticellian Venus,
blessedly clothed this time.
Nature takes no chances: storms
of sperm, ample provision made
to assure a replacement for Woody Allen,
the next generation’s bar-girl.
She made me think of heart-seared heroes
blinded because they’d gazed on a Goddess,
this one who self-contentedly
drew me a Guinness.
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