Eric Miller's Art

La Fille Parisienne

With the countenance of a bloody angel;

You prance in eight inch heels,

Too busy to notice the admirers,

Or to trip over the beggars in your way,

Carved from marble?

Or born of woman? Not with those steely eyes warning me to run and flee,

Privy of your secret,

I frighten not,

You too were bent over backwards last night,

Screaming like a banshee

And begging for more,

The seductress seduced,

Willowy promises of nourishment

Leads every cow to her bull,

Whether cod or money,

A collar or a dress,

Marble harvests a family,

So long as something goes in,

Something comes out,

And only the sensitive perish