THE JUDGE OF THE VIRGIN ROSE
THE JUDGE OF THE VIRGIN ROSE.
Here comes the Rose
In colours of Red and Pink and White
Stately, elegant and chaste in earthly robes
She struts like a Turkey and prances like a Wolf
She walks to the temple and sprawls on the mat!
Here comes the Judge
Quick to talk and sure of virtue
He stands like a pillar, pasted with graffiti
He's a lot to know and little to love
But "love comes later" all say to her
But she knows, hell! she's sure
There's no loving the Judge
This Judge of of the virgin Rose .
The Judge looks her up
Up and down, lost in thoughts
"She's a little fat to the waist" he thinks
"And her feet are a tad bigger than I hoped"
But he walks closer and closer
With each step counting his loses
With each step wary of his gift.
The Rose lifts her petal, askance
Wondering what thoughts play in the Judge
What evil bestride his mind
What atrocity he plans to commit
Against her, and Nature
She squirms under scopic glare
Lowers her petals on meeting his gaze
Every cell alert to prying eyes
Of what is to come, she can only guess
The Judge approaches with stealth
No sooner is he's close than he reaches out
Without grace or warning he snatches
Like a thief, he steals
Like a robber he claims
That which was his to begin with
There's no guessing he's used to this
Having done it more than once
He tears her up
From petal to petal, thirsty for blood!
She was his to take. To own
Why the snatch, why the shreds
She lay on the mat, striken with hate
Not for the judge of the virgin Rose
But for them who placed her there
At the throne of the virgin virgin's throes
He smells of blood, reeks of Vomit
He pants like a mull, climbing a hill
With each thrust, a new petal comes off
Again and again, without class or grace
The petals of the Virgin Rose pool
Around her feet in a puddle of blood red hate!
The Judge of the Virgin Rose thinks
Himself a King
To be adored in his stately conquer
To be praised for his royal claim
His exploits a topic for songs
And his minute wars, titles for ballads
He holds in his hands the proof of her chastity
A kerchief of bloody mischief
She lays still on her mat, perfectly still
Starting by the minute to hate her petals
For as she's to find, all
That they stand for are grossly overated.
As she is to find, to give the petals is not
To give herself at all at all!
Here comes the Rose
In colours of Red and Pink and White
Stately, elegant and chaste in earthly robes
She struts like a Turkey and prances like a Wolf
She walks to the temple and sprawls on the mat!
Here comes the Judge
Quick to talk and sure of virtue
He stands like a pillar, pasted with graffiti
He's a lot to know and little to love
But "love comes later" all say to her
But she knows, hell! she's sure
There's no loving the Judge
This Judge of of the virgin Rose .
The Judge looks her up
Up and down, lost in thoughts
"She's a little fat to the waist" he thinks
"And her feet are a tad bigger than I hoped"
But he walks closer and closer
With each step counting his loses
With each step wary of his gift.
The Rose lifts her petal, askance
Wondering what thoughts play in the Judge
What evil bestride his mind
What atrocity he plans to commit
Against her, and Nature
She squirms under scopic glare
Lowers her petals on meeting his gaze
Every cell alert to prying eyes
Of what is to come, she can only guess
The Judge approaches with stealth
No sooner is he's close than he reaches out
Without grace or warning he snatches
Like a thief, he steals
Like a robber he claims
That which was his to begin with
There's no guessing he's used to this
Having done it more than once
He tears her up
From petal to petal, thirsty for blood!
She was his to take. To own
Why the snatch, why the shreds
She lay on the mat, striken with hate
Not for the judge of the virgin Rose
But for them who placed her there
At the throne of the virgin virgin's throes
He smells of blood, reeks of Vomit
He pants like a mull, climbing a hill
With each thrust, a new petal comes off
Again and again, without class or grace
The petals of the Virgin Rose pool
Around her feet in a puddle of blood red hate!
The Judge of the Virgin Rose thinks
Himself a King
To be adored in his stately conquer
To be praised for his royal claim
His exploits a topic for songs
And his minute wars, titles for ballads
He holds in his hands the proof of her chastity
A kerchief of bloody mischief
She lays still on her mat, perfectly still
Starting by the minute to hate her petals
For as she's to find, all
That they stand for are grossly overated.
As she is to find, to give the petals is not
To give herself at all at all!
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