Morning Glory

Damn the morning glory wench!
Clattering on the cobbles hence
She's a tart of ill repute
Fit for not but combat boot
Can't she see we are abed
Trying to rest our gentle head
She's often on the silken arm
Of glistening men meaning harm
Forcing open weary eyes
To show some meager sun-lit prize
We'll have none of that round here
Toss her out let's give a cheer
Wrap the smooth-soft darkness round
With its gentle soothing sound
No more here her cocks and bells
Morning merchant hawking yells
She must be stopped she must be gone
No man living should see the dawn

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This work is Copyright (c) Mike Fletcher 2006