Walkin on Air

The Harlot



Could it be she spoke ill of me                                          
Whilst travelling ‘bout the shire?
Would it be true she said to you
I'm the target of her ire?
Her words did they scorch like Hell's fire
Sucking in hearers to bitter mire?
Threaten did she of consequence dire?
Her face was it taut and sore strained?
She must've looked evil, uncontained
Such venom spewing into minds
Of simple folks and local hinds.
I do suppose I'll let it be,
Like autumn leaves on a Maple Tree
Or frothing scum of a wavy sea
To naught it will come, this I know;
Truth in due time won't fail to show:
Conjugal fellowship, true love
Is not for sale, cannot be bought;
Tis a most sacred treasure trove
For which I live, die, and have fought.




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The Harlot

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