Greyt golden vynes plat ed down to her slender sholders wit he rownd
Shimeryng joowel of a bronze amylet on her bare brisling brest
she the thin tal firs be syde her and in the gleemyng lake therin
Cleer carved cheekbones left then ryt then twynklyng temple then sparklyng chin
Worterry glitteryng green iyes stil for al the sukulent syts
sheen saffire of nos of warter and blisful bronze nos of land
For one moment fayce to fayce then al one fayce tht not unmayk
Magestic ampul prynces now the magestic ampul layke
“Hath thou seen th Wife of Bath?”
“Ay me on the morrow I didst see her go
dresed all in blak by the old church footpath”
“Buryng anuther yung husband no dowbt”
“Thou shalt not scorn this poor womans fayte
three husbands has she lovingly marryed and more so buryed”
“Thers no need for thy long winded berate
when thou knowst not the corse of their untymely demyse”
“Doest thou exort of a murder?”
“Nay merely passing on the tayl
of a wydespred town murmer”
“Oh let us speek of such horrors no more!”
“Hath thou seen th Wife of Bath?”
“Ay me on the morrow I didst see her go
dresed all in blak by the old church footpath”
“Buryng anuther yung husband no dowbt”
“Such queer reckonyngs hav I of this woman
For our Lord to take ther sols so many”
“Five husbands all ded is surely a devils omen”
“Yet she burys them at our Lords own home”
“Regard how hyly she holds her hed
As if she nose we speek of her thus”
“Perhaps she is filed with a guilty dred”
“Oh let us speak of such horrors no more!”
“Hath thou seen th Wife of Bath?”
“Ay me on the morrow I didst see her go
dresed all in blak by the old church footpath”
“Buryng anuther yung husband no dowbt”
My young sweet vergyn mayden Amedea has
Goldyn locks of silk curlyng bout thy face
Emitting a glow so strong with such shyne
Sinners seek salvation at thy noble grace
this delycate porclayn Venus of myne makes
Acrid shokyng stayned flowers dye artless
and dusty doves drown of sorrow in far away lakes
Thy eyes. O! Thy eyes render me speechless
should but vulgar words be hung for ther crymes
I beg of thee my paytent wife to smyle than
shudder at my grey aged touch and cry
that thou were not promised to a younger man
Burn me to ashes and cast me ‘cross turmulus sea
so thy may love me as true I do thee
The sweet Elizabeth and I
are to elope tonight
No more rules to bind us so tight
Forcing us to conform
Now we shall live by the stars above
our grassy loving bed
And the whispered laws of nature
calling us in the wind
Lavish lifestyles are for old maids
with nought else as comfort
We live on the beat of our hearts
and by thy loving gaze
We feel not of hunger or thirst
mere mortal emotions
We drink and delight in pure sight
of our own earths beauty
These flimsy whispers we call women
Do not touch upon its meaning.
For true composure and grace,
One must seek to gaze
Upon the image of Lady Erpingtine.
Think long brown curls swept up
into an elegant twist at the base of her neck.
Not unlike many styles of the hour,
but unlike any style of another,
with nought a curl out of place, or a hair out of line.
A black lace bodice did encase
from her bosom to her waist,
her statuesque frame
with every chiselled feature
draped with an obsidian shawl.
Her onyx cotton collar dress
Is buttoned down the back,
With small pearls tracing the curve
Of her arched and rigid spine
that her childhood did befall.
Her prominent nose proclaims
A family history of strong warmongers
Killed before their time.
Her ellipsoidal lips enunciate
A family future of powerful femmes.
On admiring her tenacious persona,
She turned and caught my eye.
The piercing sepia read my thoughts
and riposted with a stare, aimed
at my desire, to condemn.
Jen pulls her silk satin dress
Over multipack underwear
and zips her leather brown boots
Over 15 Asda derniers.
She dabs rent rouge on her cheeks,
then smears her free sample Dior
on the chest with the £100 locket
hanging on the £10 chain.
She fills her Louis Vuitton bag
with her home-made lunch
then shuts the door to her riverside condo
and runs for the 92.
She was born with a silver-plated spoon,
Perched between her lips
To scoop up her porridge
2 parts milk, 3 parts water.
Back throo da times ders idoltry wid adultery
walkin hand in hand throo never endin sands
Same story, same sequel just a change of face
we tink we develop, we believe we’ve grown
but da past never lies it’s all set in the stones
to haunt us, to teach us, to remedy our ills
dess ain’t no minor claustrophobic thrills
Dis is our future, our present and past
Love keeps us goin wedder we wan it or not
but what we want ain’t no concern for dem at the top
We can’t love too many, we can’t love ourselves
we can’t make moves to a gal while we’re stackin shelves
She don wan no nice guy, she wans a nice cheque
Got da dollar bills love bite on da side of her neck
Gash ain’t de same as dey was in old dayz
Dey gon’ all picky like dem at subway
but dey all eyelash and lippy wid nuttin to say
Gone are da suffragettes of dat Victorian past
fightin to break down der limitin caste
Now dey pull out der tits for dat cash
dat propa fit bloke or dat well mental bash
Robyn Williamson
