Poetry

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The Snare

The eight-armed spider Jezebel,
Vile scorpion of the wishing well,
Conceives a message straight from hell
To place God's man beneath a spell.

Swathed in black, Fangs dripping blood,
She spews a slick, mind-numbing flood
Of tempting smooth talk, slick white lies,
Deceptive strands of compromise.

Her legs spin threads of milky wine
Which dangle from a telephone line.
(Bold mistress of the "call collect,"
She charges fees that few suspect

Until it is a bit too late).
See here, she lingers at the gate,
Inside the entrance to the palace,
Plotting how to weave her malice.

Demurely slips she through the door,
Flings her thread upon the floor,
And slides into the crying corner,
Picture of a desperate mourner.

Captain Ahab, here's your queen,
Lips painted crimson, eyes dyed green.
Tears shining diamonds, sparkling bright.
Your every wish is her delight.

"Boohoo, my darling, I'm so sad.
That mean old Naboth thinks I'm bad
Because I want to take his life,
His fruitful vine, to be my wife.

I said I'd swap him one of mine
For a little shmooze divine.
A love potion of bitter herbs
I thought would surely calm his nerves

And put him in a better mood.
But he acts like he thinks I'm rude
To dare suggest he act the swinger.
Oh how I hate that right-winger!

"Stop worrying," quips Jezebel,
Seductress of the smooth ink well.
"I'll ruin him with my writer's pen.
He'll take a fall, my dear. And then

His grapes shall drop right off the vine
Into my vat of vintage wine."
Thus she plots a web to weave,
the budding writer to deceive,

To lure the author from his goal,
Like Juliet with Romeo.
To get his vineyard she conspires
A "harmless friendship." See the wires?

Shall he become her marionette,
Entangled in rules she has set?
Will his passion fizzle out?
Will her words insert too much doubt?

To be continued...

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