Delta40
10-04-2011, 03:59 AM
The Vicar of Hythe yearned for her
and stored his penance across a lifetime
in the dungeons of abandoned castles,
while women stripping birchwood,
spat at her name and called her slut.
But Chima sat at his feet like a hearth mate,
braiding her wild tresses while she sang
and together they enjoyed a humble penury.
The villagers scorned those of Christ's servants
who kindled their fire with lust,
extinguishing their virtue
through wretched babies, cradles and midwives.
What penitential clergy sought to
plunder Chima Tukkyld like a cheap barrel of wine?
The Vicar's heart overflowed and washed away
the remnants of his holy meditations as she was snatched
from his modest embrace.
Chima! he sobbed over and over as the villagers jeered
and old men snickered.
Writhing, twisting, screaming,
through steaming cattle dung and muddy byways,
she cursed her wicked flesh and the Vicar of Hythe
His misguided love cracked like ancient Roman pottery.
Chima was whipped thrice around the marketplace
and thrice around the church before being burned.
The Vicar was condemned to a lifetime
of unrelenting pilgrimages in King Henry's name.
He stood at his cold hearth like a scarecrow in a meadow
imploring God for forgiveness.
Oh that a flock of blackbirds would swoop down
and gouge out my eyes, my heart
so that I might never again know desire.
and stored his penance across a lifetime
in the dungeons of abandoned castles,
while women stripping birchwood,
spat at her name and called her slut.
But Chima sat at his feet like a hearth mate,
braiding her wild tresses while she sang
and together they enjoyed a humble penury.
The villagers scorned those of Christ's servants
who kindled their fire with lust,
extinguishing their virtue
through wretched babies, cradles and midwives.
What penitential clergy sought to
plunder Chima Tukkyld like a cheap barrel of wine?
The Vicar's heart overflowed and washed away
the remnants of his holy meditations as she was snatched
from his modest embrace.
Chima! he sobbed over and over as the villagers jeered
and old men snickered.
Writhing, twisting, screaming,
through steaming cattle dung and muddy byways,
she cursed her wicked flesh and the Vicar of Hythe
His misguided love cracked like ancient Roman pottery.
Chima was whipped thrice around the marketplace
and thrice around the church before being burned.
The Vicar was condemned to a lifetime
of unrelenting pilgrimages in King Henry's name.
He stood at his cold hearth like a scarecrow in a meadow
imploring God for forgiveness.
Oh that a flock of blackbirds would swoop down
and gouge out my eyes, my heart
so that I might never again know desire.