A rich yet beggared woman hungry for love.
A fibber to all finds a new beloved.
This one be more fitting to her own age;
Soon to rest inside a wooden cage.
Rage for her as she is again plagued.
“He’s just the same!”
Suspicions of another philanderer involved in extra marital affairs,
Soon to be at one with the zinc.
Decomposing under the stairs.
You know what they say?
“In vino veritas”, it can shed light on the matter,
Just take a closer look deep down into the wine cellar.
No one mourns his death for he is “alive and well”,
With thanks to the letter, a cover up.
No shit Sherlock!
It would appear we have another vanishing man.
With a lie convincing family and friends,
She is weary from abandonment,
Yet clandestine or open; all social positions.
She is to move on and all men become phantoms.
A lover’s wife gains suspicion.
"That F***ing slut!"
Hells manic Juliet is wreaking havoc!
As they lay reeking a more silent panic.
The male corpses lay in unburied coffins!
"Mary-Ann cotton,
Dead and forgotten,
Lies in a bed with her eye's wide open,
Sing! Sing! O' what can I sing!
For this Vera used the same poisoning!"
Amidst the coffins she sits in an armchair.
Whilst they are below pallor and asleep in their box like home,
Frenzy is now over and arsenic glazed Isolde;
No longer reminisces on her courtship throne.
For her thirty-five coffins for a bed,
Find her captured and forgotten in life imprisonment.
She now lay's, as do they,
In her heartbreak good and dead.
Silly madame Vera,
For you is the smallest violin playing the most saddest song,
Unlucky to have met you're own chastisement.
