Weredog Tart (9)

   
   "Weredog Tart (9)"
   
   The bus ride was quaint and yet so cool.  Lance smelling of a spicy aftershave with a Captain Hook type of roll on deodorant, allowing him the spice of man under his blonde though hairy pits--heck, his eyebrows were yellow gold; thus, it had to be so in other places, as his khaki shorts displayed blonde-like curls as well, highlighted by a pair of year round moccasins.  
   Lance was glued to Siria as they exited the bus, him following her symmetrical tail, it being lead by the scents and smells of downtown Pittsburgh, so many delicious yet stank snorts of glee for Siria as she probed the eateries until hungrily approaching a chili dog swine-house, where they served kosher meats--no swine to be filled with demonic, suicidal activity--at least for them pigs known by the Christ, assisting in their launch downwards.
   So, Lance and Siria sat politely on a picnic-type of table, the daystar shining downwards, yet not melting Siria's arctic-blue eyes, those frosty entrances to a singular soul haunted by a weredog--and Lance and his shamrock-green stare were sincerely made sweet and subservient, making sure to wipe her canine mouth with dozens of napkin strokes.