THE CONVENT OF THE GUNS
Our clean curved mouths arc cold and dead.
Our polished skin is marred.
Our tawny thighs are thick with dirt.
Dented, cut and scarred.
Our day is done.
Our open mouths blazed Death's caress
Our tongues with steel were tipped!
Ah! Bitter spinsters were we then
As we slashed and cut and ripped!
Our youth was filled with lovers
All laughing joyous boys
Who stroked our slim, proud beauty
Their latest, deadly toys-
Then clean and fresh and polished
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