My fantasies turned blonde in ‘seventy-six:
Bjorn, and the flickas sailed from East to West.
Santa Lucia never shone so blessed
as she did in my private Euro-mix.
Perfect pop longs for that feminine fix.
Cassette wheels whirred – branding, then impressing
grooves upon the brain; my thrall confessing
love for Nordic light (in Disco metrics).
The names still strike flames, kindling bright renown:
Frida, Agnetha – your longships linger
Your Viking faces sacked my harbor town.
portaging hope to this shipwrecked singer,
enwreathing smiles to reach our further shore.
I Do… (times five – and will forevermore).
CONNECT/HOOK 
You really are a poet. ;)
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I accept that burden – whether for glory or for shame. Thank you.
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There’s no shame in it, it’s quite delightful to read. Unfortunately there’s probably not much glory in being a poet, either. ;)
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Well then to God be the glory.
And He can let a few rays fall on the Poets if He pleases.
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A fitting tribute.
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Thanks for visiting and partaking of the ABBA.
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