Magdalen Walks

Cloying her lips as the honeycomb, smooth are the words of her mouth,
But her feet in the paths of the hopeless roam, and her steps go down to hell;
Cold are her eyes as the adder's stare, her body a lust-seared drouth,
Casting the net of her perfumed hair for the dupes of her fleshly spell.

But her mouth remembers a mother's kiss, and a lover's ecstasy,
And her eyes have glowed to another's bliss when the world was fantasy.

Wayward the ways of her faring feet, haunting the curbs of the town,
And her smile is ready ever to greet all colors and creeds of men;
Flaunting her furs on the oily piers where men to the sea go down,
Sparkling the gauds in her eager ears for the jest of the drinking den.

But her feet remember pasture trail and the quest of kine that roam,
And her ears have keened to a brother's hail from the well-sweep of a home.

Bitter and weary her fleeting span, gall is the cup she must quaff,
And her head is bent to a man-made ban for a life by man decreed;
Itching her palms for her sordid fees, a tinkle of ice her laugh,
Hardened her heart to the weird she drees, for a girl to live must feed.

But her hands remember the dairy days and the organ keys at eve,
While her heart betimes is a rogue that prays for an end to fate's reprieve.

What are the common factors that link the attar of orchard bloom
With the fetid human and gas-light stink in her house where lust is fed?
Betrayal of love, original sin, or nymphomaniac doom,
Or simply the primitive urge to win her daily and needful bread?

Ye may take your choice, and may so proclaim the manner of man ye be,
But before ye burden your God with the blame, be sure that it's not on ye.