A song best forgotten
From Changeling Venue
Her beauty captivated all, especially me perched on by close
Where her ladies did wait and dress her in fines spun of their silken hair and fragranced much the same.
A song with words best forgotten, as her lips motioned with mine,
As her flesh swayed with mine.
No, none will argue her beauty, and for that is not why, this song is best forgotten.
As none will argue her cruelty, and for this there is a better ballad to sing.
This is a song best forgotten much like the first night.
She pulled you through the mud of the hedge where you drank of her wine.
Dazed, with feelings enhanced, her black nail dripped the ichor that burns.
She drew in you her banner, property of she whose song I sing.
That mark was worst than the shackle on her perch
Worse than the collar on those who waited
For all knew, her mark was for hers and no others.
She was known among the Gentry, not even the goblins would dare
For all knew of her beauty but a thousand times worse was her cruelty.
Her household was full, much like her dowry
An appetite not satiated by a hundred men, nor a thousand hen.
She shared with us each, a nightmare forever
And now I sing a song, I sang to her, but this one is best forgotten.
