He retold the tale of his victory over Lady Nightmare.
Gathering speed, he raced through the details,
ignoring the hangdog air of defeat which rustled
the tapestry at his back.
The teenagers gaped their lopsided mouths at him
and he begged the waiting silence to confirm
their victims’ awe, prove it something more
than adolescent cluelessness.
He fumbled with his lighter and his tumbler
forced an enthusiastic smile as the questions began.
Was it true about the Lady and her blue menagerie?
Was it pleasure or something else
which caused the copper-harnessed bull to bellow?
When he had backed the wicked Lady
to the cliff side rail and ordered her to undress
had she cursed or begged or bargained?
And in what language had he ravished her?
Above all, in what language?