M
M
She was precocious but not of the mind
Which from father took a source of great ill
So it was her predilection for thrill
Slithered towards the corporeal kind
It pays none to well, that’s what you will find
Unless you mince flesh to pulp in the mill
For that you’ll need to unearth a great drill
That’s meat you look to the wood for a find
She laughs with salt on the tongue for a meal
Then sent out to grass as fat as a cow
While the furrowers go seeking out veal
Then as the hens begin gathering now
She finds faith is her sole reason to kneel
Now that soil’s no longer fit for a plough
deadspidereye 