This poem is no Billy’s babble,
I know this girl who tends to dabble,
Dabble with unkind creatures.
She’s beautious, dark, and loyalty-tied,
Non-gregarious, starry-eyed;
Starry-eyed for the inexpedient.
Wit is written on skin so fair
Eyes like skies, too deep to pare.
But pare her idea of ideal men.
Challenge, with whom her morals meet,
Picks scoundrels, wreaking calm deceit.
Deceitful words are hooks to her.
Beknownst to all but she herself,
These rogues take riches, turned to pelf.
Pelf, for she is better than them.
Too low they sink below her merit,
Her virtue, they could stand to inherit,
Inheriting her in return.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
This poem is no Billy’s babble,
I know this girl who tends to dabble,
Dabble with unkind creatures.
She’s beautious, dark, and loyalty-tied,
Non-gregarious, starry-eyed;
Starry-eyed for the inexpedient.
Wit is written on skin so fair
Eyes like skies, too deep to pare.
But pare her idea of ideal men.
Challenge, with whom her morals meet,
Picks scoundrels, wreaking calm deceit.
Deceitful words are hooks to her.
Beknownst to all but she herself,
These rogues take riches, turned to pelf.
Pelf, for she is better than them.
Too low they sink below her merit,
Her virtue, they could stand to inherit,
Inheriting her in return.
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