Thursday, January 19, 2012


Prim and proper
Black corset laced tight
Her torso bleeds
For his delight.
She hovers in the corner
Awaiting his gaze
Her eyebrows are raised
In proper mask
Beneath her bustle,
A hidden flask
She sweetly prances to the ladies’ room
Powders her nose
And takes a swig
Her dire fate
Yet doth await.
Chattle’s hell
Doth not abate.
She cannot breathe
This damned corset
Allows no reprieve.
Her ribs are bruised
All for the prim
And pain for him
Chattel’s duty
She shall endure
There is no cure
Except this flask
Pray thee, constant pour.

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