On the Piste

sonnet

Our meeting hardly fleeting, Saint Moritz
On the piste, half-lost this smarmy cougar
She gurgled strawberry champagne and spritz
And begged to watch me polish my Ruger

Had she constraint she may have been a saint
I should mention her clothes were by Balmer*
Her leather laden boots were oh-so quaint
And her shame of me drove her…

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