Living Through My Pen

I chase down the wolves, the lions, tigers and bears, oh my. They are wearing slick black jackets, and sliding around in the rain On motorcycles Non wearing helmets, rather chains and tattoos If my mother would like them I am not interested They reek of cigars and beer, and they are the baddest of the boys My pen stops here and snickers I smack it upside the head Vicarious you maybe, she says. Now I know it is full-blown Trixie, my uppity know-it-all muse. I should choke her to death She is such a mood killer.