Jezebel reflects, remembers,
pens her sweetest verses--
never tends neglected embers,
etches perfect tercets.
Her pen remembers, the slender pews
were then red velvet dressed.
She’d spent endless vespers there,
sheltered, free, blessed.
The elders there, they’d served her well,
when she’d left the streets.
Yet ere she’d wed,
The wench, the temptress,
between the bedsheets.
Thence, even the Reverend jeered,
“Serpent, we beseech thee…
Repent! Else we’ll decree,
be ended here!”
She fell, she knelt, expressed regret,
yet they were hellbent, vehement.
Even when she wept,
she’d been expelled.
Every letter thence she’d spelled
reserved, repressed her secret.
She’d never tell.
She kept the Reverend’s secret.