They ask me who I work for.
I tell them I don’t know what their talking about.
They open the door.
I remain stout.
After the whip.
Where they take my blood.
They take me for a dip.
They dropped me to the bottom mud.
They laugh as I gasp.
I still won’t talk.
My voice is getting rasp.
They take me for a walk.
That maiden is mad.
She takes innocence and isn’t sad.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
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