Circassian girl

Hair all a-twirl

Awaiting her Pasha's pleasure.

The Pasha's quite old

And no longer bold.

She'll learn to relish her leisure.

Two tattooed symbols of sin

Badges of rank drawn in her skin

A greater evil came her way

And used her up in just a day

Pharaoh, mighty Pharaoh, what do you see?
In the distance, off the paper, where I cannot be.
Your queer Grand Vizier come to bugger your buns?
Or something more dire and a whole lot less fun?
Your generals, mighty Pharaoh, bearing bad news;
"This war, mighty Pharaoh, we are certain to lose."
Or maybe there!  Just at the edge of the sky,
the dust of millions of mullahs, all eager to die.
Pharaoh, mighty Pharaoh, we hope that it's true;
'tis only your butler, come to fuck only you.

What do you do when your luck runs out?

Sit on your bed in a pissy pout?

Or forge on ahead without any doubt

that the game will end on a winning shout.

You can look behind or try to spy ahead,

but naught you see will change the fact

the little bitch is dead!

This bloody jealous rage will surely cost you dear;

you've got no choice but grab your clothes

and quickly fly from here.

What sort of ghastly Greekish play

explains the pose you took today?

Are you Tiresias and staff;

Socrates played for a laugh;

maybe some Boeotian buffoon whose

grim demise is coming soon?

Your death will be a tragic joke;

no one will drape your corpse with cloak.

Not because you lack a friend,

but you were naked at the end.

Warrior maid

are you ever afraid

that you'll never get laid

'cause you're always

guarding the larder.

Here lies the famous sculptor Phidias,

Spent from grieving his fate hideous.

Sold his immortal soul for worldly fame;

Few now can even rightly say his name.

See the spirit of wine

raising his cup

to the spirit of hangover

who fucked her all up.