A Fugitive Portrait In Verse of the Innocent and the Depraved

A maid, lovely and just as fair, is a flower, a bloom, afresh even when no sunshine's o'er there. In spirit and in youthful flesh, so magnificent past compare, she softly glows, with skin so fresh. With youth and loveliness to find, she coyly offers no consent; but with her smiles and trust so blind, she stirs a restless discontent. When peeks, and looks, betray her mind, she befriends me as if we're meant. Her sweetness, though, sparks a desire, a lust without wise self-control; but rule I must, I must, this fire!? For this maid's a girl, not a doll to quench and slake my swollen spire, the squire of my depraved, dark soul.