Friday, 12 March 2010
Fumble furtive strumpet.
Your costume cannot hide your heart.
Like a cup-full of wine it overflows
As they tear your halves apart.
In a turquoise dress of silky cloth
Mist veils they can see through.
Maskless, the mirror shows a face
That killed off all those who knew.
Girl, your skill is nonpareil.
Your inheritance: fame and pride.
Your next one waits in a magenta motor-coach,
As in fern-curled hands you hide.
(I'm not that impressed with this one - done in a hurry and it shows. It feels too empty.)