The mob arrives with stones and sticks
to maim and lame and do me in.
All the same, when I open my mouth,
they wobble like gin.
Diamonds and pearls
tumble from my tongue.
Or toads and serpents.
Depending on the mood I'm in.
I like the itch I provoke.
The rustle of rumor
like crinoline.
I am the woman of myth and bullshit.
(True. I authored some of it.)
I built my little house of ill repute.
Brick by brick. Labored,
loved and masoned it.
She enjoys the hate and the lies about just how bad she is. So much so that she even spreads roomers her self to get people to fear her even more.
Loose Woman