A meeting of chance; the targets are set.
Veiled words burrow beneath, most potent,
and sent back in haste: "I'm so glad we met."
Such passions grow sickeningly intent.
They met by the barn; her shoulders were paste,
his were hunched in desire to corrupt all.
Easily done - not noticed - she can't taste
the potion brewed in lust's enchanting hall.
They are enveloped in poisoned wings,
kicking and tugging, the grin pulls them in.
wear regret now on your premature ring?
The young are toys to be moulded in sin.
There's nought so effective as foreign tongues,
practice the words to the end of your lungs.
© Copyright 2016 Mathew Nicolson. All rights reserved.
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