The Burlesque Dancer
Feathers from her boa scattered,
silver looking glass lies shattered,
lacy corset, torn and tattered,
crawling down a bloody chair.
Perfume bottles spilt and leaking,
while the wardrobe doors are creaking,
pearls behind the nightstand sneaking,
make-up powder fills the air.
Snake-like scarlet stains are streaking
out from underneath her hair.
Parted lips. A silent stare.
Men in times of evening leisure
seeking bits of guilty pleasure
came to her and left a treasure
of red roses at her feet.
With her gestures lewdly taunting,
when she danced, she left them wanting.
Upon leaving there was one thing
on their mind, one thought discreet
crept into their minds so haunting
as they stepped out in the street –
how to quench that itching heat.
Countless times he watched her dancing
from the darkened corner, glancing
at the men she was entrancing,
watched her with a silent glare.
When her seedy act was over,
to her lodgings then he drove her.
Brimming with disgust, he strove to
tear her from that loathsome lair.
Threatened death. And countless times she
teased him that he wouldn’t dare.
Never saw how much he cared.
So when he came late one evening
he saw her as she was leaving
with some gent and, disbelieving
that for once they wouldn’t meet,
he pursued them, softly easing
his mind of the unappeasing
thought that she just might be pleasing
him when they reach her retreat.
At the thought his heart was freezing
and his rigor was complete
when he witnessed her deceit.
And the rest needs no description:
jealousy brought on conniption
due to gruesomer affliction
than his sanity could bare.
So he chose to liberate her,
for he could not stand to hate her.
Just his agony was greater
than his weakening despair.
Agony that, coming later,
those who chance to find her there
wouldn’t spare her but a prayer.