Babbitty Shame

Oh crying shame What fearful sight is this? Be it the red of the rose All dark thorns Be is sharp, sharp, sharp She will stand and stare And claim that beauty was that Which caught her eye But no beauty therein lies For bruises on her skin did stain And strip her of her soul Foul waxy skin Cut it off, off, off “Why is it?” she bellowed “That sinister petals hold fairer looks than me?” “That I must be marked by the father As father raises hands to she, His daughter. All sparks and rain.” “Better that I be crucified, oh black heart, So I shall never again refrain.”