I'm such a filthy, filthy whore
So beautiful and loose.
Beyond the reach of mother's eyes,
God and I have made a truce.
It is silent on the farm,
where nothing ever grows.
The land is better left barren,
And even the government knows.
Henry wanted a family-
children, a wife, and a home.
He was evil, he drank, and he died;
He left our mother and I all alone.
And here I am as a seamstress,
growing beautiful, talented, thick.
She sews faster to help me complete it,
With this fabric, depleted so quick.
Damn Gus for growing so frail,
He was such a fine digger of graves.
Those bodies kept fresh and delightful,
Fueled a wardrobe, in earlier days.
She told me the facts about sin,
How all women were whores in disguise.
And I promised her never to marry,
and watched her in bed late at night.
A musician I am, as well,
So pretty with breasts and a drum.
Only moonlight will witness the dance,
of the magnificent slut I?ve become.
I?ve never felt so free,
As when bringing home new treasures.
And now that the parts are still warm,
Tenfold increased is my pleasure.
When Henry went down in the barn,
The red fire soon ate him alive.
And though no such ravenous savage,
It is cooked flesh on which I survive.
She stays very close to me, still
Calling down from her room overhead,
and seems to promise me kindly,
That my temptress will never be dead.
But now I am ripped by a hunger,
that tears like my deer-skinning knife,
And I yearn yet again for a female,
to fill the void that she?s left in my life.
Lovely girl's faces, all in a row,
And I wear one as I undress.
It is the face I hate the most,
Which has always loved me best.
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