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Weave, widow, your silken funeral wreath;
Ebbing gently over lovers devoured.
And sing, widow, a dirge of lust and grief;
Sing of mates consumed, their bones scraped and scoured,
When in the end they gorged your final need
Once lust was sated and pleasure soured.
Another will lay eyes on your dark, wicked shape;
Another visits the nest, never to escape.
© 1997 by J. M. Pressley
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