I claimed my right to silk, velvet, lace, disgrace,
Wet my mouth with a truffle macaroon, sprinkled with gold,
Served on a dirty plate – I ate
It all, crumbs and tears gone cold,
Imploring more.

I played dutiful daughter, wife, the evening’s ballroom prize, muse of vice,
Walked in beauty, and danced, danced, danced in starlit gazes and nights,
With a delicate stocking torn – still sworn
To have it all: purrs, licks and pure cat fights,
Nails unveiled.

I met the man, the lord, soothsayer, life slayer,
Whose tongue turned cinders into fiery cardinal magma.
Lust, carnal lust, made purgatory seem a walk, and balk
I did not, never stopped by stigma;
I burned, unconcerned.

I was fed, adored, glutted, then gutted
To suit his desire, then thrown to the pack.
A better place for this leg of lamb: Bedlam.
A skeleton still stalks his scentless track.
But Byron? Gone.