She Calls Herself a Spinster

She Calls Herself a Spinster

She calls herself a spinster with a sly and sultry smile.
At seventy-eight, she knows so well the art of luring guile.
A silken string strewn on his face from her outstretched bony hand
is not seen by the younger man she knows that she will land.

This young man is manly, which must lead to his demise.
A spinster spider knows too much and casts her come-on lies.
She twirls him round and round and round and round again once more.
He’s dizzy now and lustful. She has him to his core.

He’s bound up in her silken web, her web of love’s deceit.
Her sweet perfume, her purring tongue, the web of his defeat.
At his last gasp engulfed in thread, he knows that he’s been had.
But he would not trade in his fate. His last breaths are not sad.

She’s energized, another score! And she dabs on more perfume.
The darkness that she penetrates, it leads to weak men’s doom.
She calls herself a spinster with a sly and sultry smile.
At seventy-nine, she knows so well the art of luring guile.


I’m noticing a pattern in what I’m writing these days. I just love writing about bizarre humans (like me). And, no, this isn’t based on anyone I know.

Update 3-14-2016 – I just changed the beginning of the last line from “At seventy-eight” to “At seventy-nine”, because reasons.

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