In Helena, it’s illegal to dance on the table in a saloon
wearing less than three pounds, two ounces of clothing.
But your gorgeous blue eyes, Ms. Montana, have me over the moon
and, in this poem I’m composing,
I see you taking off one piece at a time
until you’re wearing nothing but your sublime
smooth tan skin with your thirty ought six balanced expert on your hip.
If I was the sheriff and had to take you to jail,
I’d tell my deputy to go supervise the sheep dip,
throw away the key, and read every inch of you in braille.