by Fegger

Created on: March 06, 2009

The Prostitute's Tale

Tis low eve:

Day's beacon sheds

Broad, orange strands

Long, and resting on

The thin green line.

It'll be soon I go.

Earn me bread-

Beneath the stars

That cannot condemn me

As they be privy to truths.

Aye, moon

Show yer face in discord.

Remember me?

Bastard daughter o' Marny?

Then took er own blood

Mixed wid her breastfeed

Across my new mouth?

Remember? You filt my eyes then!

Surely not too many to recall

A speckled face like mine!

Tis nigh:

Talc an' lavender petal,

Hide all suspicions.

Aye, they pay for fresh

Or they don't pay well.

Turn the linen an'

Perk the down-for

Fat butchers an'

Be-speckled penny-men

Need soft for their laurels.

Aye, lanterns of the marketplace:

A'glowin' like the entrance to Hell.

Brides haste to their hearths,

Prepare, and wait.

Dare not tread when I creep

And lure their mate

With masquerade and

Shallow approval, of flattery.

Men, so weak and distrustful,

Wander night with sticky arms!

Tis the hour.

Loosen garters to dangle

Just below a man's chin.

Compress spearmint leaves

Tween grinding ivory

An' lying tongue.

I be fit. I be hungry.

I will eat tomorrow an'

A new hat an' parasol

Will defend me from honest day.

Aye, me belly

Let no child spring from ye' now.

Should sweet love not find

Me worthy of husband, hearth

Let not temptation of mother's weakness

Paint silver to draw red

And poison the nourish of daughter

Who will come to fear

The face of the Moon

Or commune of stars.

I go now.

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