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Elsa’s strip tease
When I missed the full band cricket orchestra in the underbrush playing,
then I knew it, she was bringing it. Everything would be flinging and slinging.
She had traveled here in time for the historic calypso season,
a time where carnival hips moved with full seasoning,
and calypso moves ignored the rules of gravity and reason.
The hem of Elsa’s skirt lightly brushed early before dawn,
then she slammed the house like a mighty angry fist before I could yawn.
The wind forces then roared in, monstrously roaring.
Surfing on the winds coattails, was a heavy pounding rain.
Rattling the windows, her stance akimbo.
Teasing the doors but no one wanted Elsa indoors,
wetting their dry floors, she was an unwelcomed bore.
Whipping and stripping the trees and hedges.
Toppling power poles in a game of windy wedges.
However, no one was playing with this young brat Elsa,
wishing her anywhere but where.
Flooding rushing in rivers along invisible roads, floating every debris load.
The mighty roaring wind had full roars in its quiver.
In a tantrum Elsa snapped off my antenna making everything shiver.
In a whirling flurry of fury, she launched sustained assaults on my roof with her shock troops, her holding pattern was like overhead time space loops and
you did not have to be a trekky to follow the continuum of this group.
Straining and teasing every hurricane strap and bolt, young Elsa was packing a lot of amps. Her ample rear was vibrating in full calypso revolt, running down the rhythms faster than a colt. Anyone outside could only drown like a dolt.
Like a terrible shrew, to have her own way, Elsa hollered, shrieked and roared and screamed, and even at times above your roof banged and shouted.
If you saw her stormy face, she even pouted.
She for a while reigned supreme, a real screamer. Elsa was not a dreamer.
Sashaying her hips, and slashing with her bacchanal skirt, she bent her knees and dropped her waist low to earth gravity, working full energy backside gyrations, attacking from all around like a reamer, which made some long for a true and early redeemer, but they had to face the bowling of this seamer.
Pulling off roofs like a giant atmospheric Tower Yarder.
Milling them for the debris market in hurricane valley’s Caribbean larder.
By noon she had hurried away with her basket of hurricane ware, on to the next harvest ground to reap more debris commodities, what an oddity this climactic entity, but then Elsa clearly had hurricane mentality, but was yet to outgrow immature stormy emotionality.
Leaving a giant wake of debris after her final volleys,
None were feeling jolly as they contemplated her folly.
Windward in her skirts, she swaggered on to her next flirt.
Elsa was living her life and she was a big girl with girth.
The thing is, in hurricane nursery there is no 101 on mercy and mirth.
Their rote is only a major in dearth and there, they do not build hearths.
CI-473707354 Knight Truelove Poems