She hands me
Feeling the pulse of the crowd.
The heat of the skid fire,
The cracks of the fire crackers,
Scared I hold him.
His sweater thick and warm
My tears hot and strong.
The queen of the party.
In the trucks fog lights
Her king not too far
Rolling joints for the townspeople.
Her grace is in the beanie slouching off her head,
Her beauty is in her combat boots,
Her rein will be long and prosperous
Over the smoke infested nation.