The Bite of Madamoiselle L'Vampyre

THE BITE OF MADAMOISELLE L'VAMPYRE She kept her room in such a holy mess, and slept in catacombs beneath the street, forsaken men would call at her address with vintage wine, and something good to eat, and caring not, the price one had to pay to spend the night, while Paris dozed or slept, and never once were they refused to stay there in her chamber where her dreams were kept; absolved from how she deemed society, she none-the-less would entertain the same, precisely, right down to a spot of tea, each afternoon to anyone who came; but she was death, at midnight she would bite, someone who got too close, when he was there, and never once would he put up a fight although he knew he'd die, he wouldn't care. © Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet aka ron wilson