Pierre and the derrière

Once upon a crimson shore,
I sang a song of Evermore,
but my love, whom all adore,
was busy with a bloke named Thor.

As if he leapt from chiseled stone,
the girls all giggle, blush and moan.
I scowl upon his high cheekbones,
luring the ladies with his groans.

So suddenly, the tide has changed,
heart now stilled, by fists of rage.
My Evermore lost to his gaze,
“His bloody bones I’ll rearrange!”

I sling a brew, before his lips,
watching the drunkard slur and sip.
I mock him tripping, pants now split,
exposing the crack 'neath his hip.

Eyes bulging out, as we all glare,
at tats upon his derrière.
He screeches out, with butt so bare,
for all to see, the name Pierre!

I laugh so hard I spit my stout,
upon the breasts all slung about.
Then my gal, she shot me a pout,
winking my way with lips pursed out.

M'lady watched me slam and pour
the rest of my stout upon the floor.
“Out of my way, Miss Evermore,
for I now fancy me some Thor!”