Steampunking the girl at the bar

   
   "Steampunking the girl at the bar"
   
   Oh Red Sonja.  Come to me with your shimmering cascade of scarlet strength and anti-witchcraft boobs, you not bothering with wicked or even benevolent thaumaturgy, yet slaying with quicksand death the self-serving and gluttonous--those that feed on the freedom of others, slicing open their fat bellies with a swordwoman's corporeal suavity holding the friendship of promising steel.
   The West.  America.  North.  Canada electing a chance at freedom the other day.  Like American Free States, existing in the few--for now.  
   And I glimpse the crimson piece of luminous lass parked on sturdy stool, erect with points supporting various pivoted directions.  Young lady.  Notice the bard.  The animal-guided monk, drinking, yet getting to know John Barleycorn betterways, defunking the super-literary fruits to their leather pajamas, and the best wine is on the lips of a fiery woman.
   Totally.  Definitely.  Sonja.  Come to me.  Wrapped in the instinct of genius, when industrial steam does power technology, stealing away the magic before a revolution industrial, yet you are luminous and militarized, garbed in the "get" of gorgeous man gear, all to slay my lopsided heart.  
   Make a mild pass guys.  If she doesn't go for it--run like hell.