6.2

She was no taller than a martini shaker.
She had a face like a Bentley's grille.
Her silver legs were a money-maker;
I'll tell you when I've had my fill.

I am made of piss and lightning.
More disappointment here than thrill.
When she's around, I feel the tightening
of my fear; too tight to kill.

The muse I mean is a gilded fever.
Her skin feels like a dollar bill.
I tell her I can love whenever (
A promise that I won't fulfill.
)