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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I recall the day she journeyed to the delta from her village above the first cataphract with a New Kingdom attitude and an Old Kingdom strut, inspiring rumors to be passed from shadoof to shadoof the entire length of the Valley of Kings. She displays the proudest parts of her body with Babylonian charm and welcomes admiring glances with casual disdain. The left eye of Horus casts its henna-tinted gaze from beneath the sheer gown that accentuates her assertive breasts. Her hair is a silky mosaic of complex motives and deliberate intentions done up in a way that could entice the guardians of pharaoh’s tomb to abandon their arid post and wet themselves with lust. She once lured an aspiring prophet from the solace of his mountain refuge, soiled his beard and left him carving disobeyed commandments in the mud by the banks of the Nile. It remains one of her proudest accomplishments. The symbols of Anubis and Khepri adorned the rings she wore when she wore nothing else at all. Her business sense rivals the instincts of jackals and scorpions. She keeps her sentimentality rolled in a carpet and she greets each new lover saying, Kiss my asp! She works the winepress of Saqqara with such ardent enthusiasm she intoxicates even the impotent priests of Osiris whose withered loins become stirred by memories of pleasures thought long since abandoned to time. Her favorite dirty little secret is a shepherd boy she took to bed while wolves ravaged his family’s sheep. She revels in recalling his pain and suffering in the aftermath, but emphatically denies she shares any responsibility for the damages. I was just trying to help, says she. She speaks Egyptian, but dreams in Greek. Her promises are a convoluted pyramid scheme. Her reputation is common knowledge from Memphis to Thebes where she is whispered of in the marketplace as though her name were currency to be traded for protection from the curse of Amon Ra-rah-rah. The lies she’s told her lovers are hieroglyphs to be deciphered by future generations. Her Rosetta stone lies buried in a warm dark place in anticipation of an archaeologist’s eager probing fingers discovering its encrypted seduction. Her indoctrination into the unclean cult of Netjerikhet was fully consummated when she pleasured herself on the steps of the mastaba in full view of the scandalized villagers who stopped to watch and take pictures. Her influence among the disciples of Onan grew till her sense of self-empowerment rivaled that of the Acolytes of the Pillow Goddess. In honor of her wicked accomplishments she has been immortalized as the subject of the centerfold in the Papyrus of Ani. I know these things to be true and attest to their veracity as I once served as her personal scribe and chronicler. I bear witness and testify to the truth of the Word. Be warned, lest she lead you to perdition.
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