Amsterdam

Amsterdam is out and about in the midday sun
her buttermilk skin gleaming,
hair streaming behind her, graceful as a golden banner on a castle top.
Her dainty bosom is bound in an orange bandanna,
(for the football, you understand)
and her little toosh, draped in a white skirt,
perched coyly on the seat of her upright bike,
is a thing of such perfection that you could break your heart,
just watching it go by.
She rounds the corner, ringing her bell,
scattering tourists who've strayed into the cycle lane.
Her face is serene and composed,
intelligent, thoroughly grounded,
but there is plenty of mischief in her eyes.
You would never think of doing her wrong.
There is something in her smile that says
she won't take no shit.
She is fearless,
heedlessly flashing passers-by
as the wind toys with her skirt.
She hides nothing,
yet at the same time, her depths cannot be guessed.
And almost before you can think,
you are hopping on your bike and following her,
for she has disappeared round a corner,
down a side street you hadn't noticed was there,
and she does look like the sort of person who knows all the right places.
Besides (you note, feeling a little kinky and a lot curious),
you would really rather like to talk to her,
and see where it goes.