Dim wit, or nitwit
Is a borderline insult and doormat,
Is just plain bulldozing and still, look at anything
Blonde, you get a feeling of
Being a perennial understatement.

“How many blondes to write a poem?”
One to put the thinking Viking hat on,
One to look at the northern lights,
And the midnight sun, looking for inspiration,
One to pitch Swedish words,
Sounding like English, and one to
To draw metaphors from arctic foxes,
Reindeer and lichens in the Tundra,
One to be a muse, like the little mermaid
In Copenhagen,

And finally, one dynamite blonde,
To define beauty, as the colorless, pallid
Tone that accompanies blue eyes,
Which becomes a poem on her own right,
A bombshell hiding a cluster bomb,
That like an open tinderbox,
Needs very little to kindle.

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