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Best Dressed To Kill Poems | Poetry

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dressed to kill by hansen, jan

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The Best Dressed To Kill Poems

Details | Dressed To Kill Poem | Create an image from this poem.

As My Pen Danced

I waited, dressed to kill
in red,
and in love

both, of which 
I could have been coaxed out of

You have turned a pale shade of white,
my Valentine

Al Green sang to me,
as my pen danced as your substitute 
we danced all night long,
stationary, our dance floor.

As we whirled to the emotions
of words' sounds; hand in hand,
we went round and round
and round

No one else in the room
most of all, not you
as my ink turned 
from red to blue

Copyright © regina branham | Year Posted 2009

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A Night Cap****Adult****

Aching for my presence
she called me late one night.
She wanted to have 
a night cap,
and she knows I do it right.

Forty five minutes later,
on the counties outer rim.
I pull into the driveway,
of her old

Striking lightly with my knuckles
on the front door made of oak.
she opens the door,
powder blue negligee
high heels.
My jaw hit the floor.

                                                          Caramel surprise,
                                                    nude, she's dressed to kill.

Candles glowing throughout the house
relaxing music in the distance.
She drops her robe, 
standing there,
testing my resistance.

The curvature of her waistline,
tapering to long,
well toned thighs.
Breasts proportionate to her figure.
Standing six foot tall
is a beauty just my size.

Unable to control my sergeant,
she receives a standing ovation.
Reaching down, she caresses me,
what a wonderful sensation.

I push her onto the mattress,
forcing my way between her thighs.
She twists and turns violently,
whimpering a series
of sultry cries.

Jared Pickett

Copyright © Jared Pickett | Year Posted 2009

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On the battlefield, the ruby blood, 
is caked to warm dusty brown to dry.
Bedraggled women calls the living, 
she, with pleasure, makes a soldier cry.

Lady in red, whore of the regiment, 
her life spent, intently but corruptly.
She will subtract the soldier from the war, 
and seduce him softly but abruptly.

Eerie soldiers of death seek the war whore, 
she turns them inside out and to her will. 
The men will knock, knock, knock upon her door; 
because not every soldier's dressed to kill. 

They have removed their blunt minds to fight, 
and advance but cannot kill to win. 
This femme fatale, siren of the trench, 
aspires to take the war out of men.

By Edlynn Nau
© June 21, 2016

Copyright © Edlynn Nau | Year Posted 2016

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A Modest Proposal: Sestina

I just want five minutes, just to pitch
My killer screenplay for a killer film.
The hunt for a serial killer
By glamorous profilers, nothing grubby
Or exploitive. Some partial nudity,
(Only if required). There’ll be a sexy
Enigmatic hero. First a, er, sexy
Sombre saxophone sighs; on a soccer pitch
Lies the first victim. Tasteful nudity
Reveals one poignant nipple. Open eyes film
Over, dead as moon craters, her grubby
Legs disposed like spoons. She was our killer’s
Anonymous mouse. Our glamorous killer’s
Eyes showed her useless terror. Our sexy
Hero runs a slow hand through his grubby
Hair (Cares too much to wash.) Things touch fever pitch
When the next is abducted. We will film
Her wide eyed writhings. Classy nudity
Perhaps. Some brief tenderness; nudity
Of course; our hero and his wife. (While killer
Stalks a frail, thinly sketched female. We film
From his point of view her private sexy
Underwear clad body.) I want this pitch
To emphasize our Fincheresque grubby
Vision is totally unique. Grubby
Walls connote moral decay. Nudity
Is not exploitive. Our hero pitches
An unorthodox solution. The killer
Is secretly his cross-dressing sexy
Partner. Twisty eh? Never seen on film.
Dressed to Kill? No. Nobody’s heard of that film!
(Who remembers the 80s?) In a grubby
Climax, the mousy cross-dressing, sexy
Basement stalks saxophone solos. Nudity
Washes its private underthings. Killer
Underwear is arrested. That’s the pitch!
Contains grubby scenes of sexy violence.
Contains killer nudity and mild scenes of extreme peril.
Contains high pitched screams and discarded spoons.


Copyright © Kevin Sharp | Year Posted 2013

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oh wow!
she’s prettier than i thought
dressed to kill
i suddenly look like a tramp
smell like one too

not sure
whether or not to hold hands
neither is she
but at last it’s done
a wet    clammy experience

about the good night kiss
my first date
oh hell    take a shot
they say eskimos do it that way too

saying goodnight
this urgent call to nature
wouldn’t you know it
sphinx like the whole date
she suddenly wants to talk                   
Dave Austin

Copyright © daver austin | Year Posted 2015

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Eye of the Beholder

The world is filled with babies
And the parents who adore ‘em,
Though unrelated bystanders
Most often will ignore ‘em.
For many aren’t near as cute
As relatives believe.
The filter that’s tied up with love
Is easy to deceive.
Some infants wear the faces
They’ll parade in when they’re old
And others, even dressed to kill,
Are homely to behold.
Since I became a nana
It’s just natural to compare.
I assure you, though, my grandkids
Outshine everyone out there!

Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2016

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The Coffee Shop (Male)
It was a warm summer afternoon; As the sun covered the sidewalk like they were bride and groom.
On my way to the coffee shop, a place where I often stop…                                                                    In the downtown city blocks.
Wearing cream designer shirt, shoes, slacks, and socks;                                                                        I saw walking towards me a lady with beauty on lock;                                                                                          Designer dressed from bottom to top.
Louis Vuitton heels, the color of scorching hot;                                                                                        Thinking to myself, she deserve props. Not realizing that we were both headed to coffee shop, a place where I often stopped. 
Like a gentleman, I open the door to let her in Prada is what I smelled in the wind. 
Oh my, she had thick legs and thick thighs Brown skin with light brown eyes.
Headed to the Bristo with a laptop by her side…
She ordered a caramel latte. What do I do to break the ice and conversate?
At the coffee shop a place where I often stopped.
Written by Ezar Williams

The Coffee Shop (Female)
Work heavy on my mind; Mid day, need to break away and unwind
The weather is warm to my skin; The air is breezy and fresh as I take it all in…On my way to the coffee shop where I often stop.
Laptop in one hand, purse in the other; As I walked towards the door, I noticed a “Brotha”?
Tall, dark, and handsome would not be original; This Brotha has stance, confidence of someone spiritual. 
He opened the door, as a gentleman should; I walked by, nodded politely, but in my mind he stood.
His eyes spoke, and his smile remained still; Designer dressed, shoes, matching hat, dressed to kill. 
I headed to the counter to order my favorite drink as if I wasn’t fazed; By his inviting stature or silent praise. 
“Caramel Latte” I request, “I’ll be at my usual table” I directed. 
Something was different at the coffee shop, a place where I often stopped. 
Written by Stephanie Jones

Copyright © Street Cries | Year Posted 2015

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When Charlie Grew Up

Way back in the nineteen fifties
When Charlie grew out of his toys,
He fancied having an active life
So he joined the Teddy Boys.

He wore drainpipe jeans, a black drape coat
And a shirt with a boot lace tie.
With his crepe-soled shoes and slicked back hair
He definitely caught your eye.

It wasn’t unusual to find him
With a flick-knife in his hand, though
This wasn’t quite what he wanted but
He pretended to make a stand.

Young Charlie was more of a lover
With a record of amorous feats,
And rather than hurting people,
He preferred slashing cinema seats.

So when he began seeing Doreen
Spending Friday night on the town,
He took her to the local flea-pit
Where they cheered when the film broke down.

Now Doreen had plans to catch Charlie,
Dressed to kill she just couldn’t fail,
With stiletto heels and flouncy skirts
And her hair in a pony-tail.

Poor Charlie just couldn’t resist her
And finally asked her to wed.
He bought a stylish suit and proper shoes,
He’d grown out of being a Ted.

In marital bliss some time later
He thought of the freedom he’d had,
With his Teddy Boy suit now in mothballs
He felt that life wasn’t too bad.

With Doreen he’d found some contentment
But thoughts whirled around in his brain,
Growing up had left some resentment
And he wished he could be young again.

Copyright © Elisabeth Sheaffer | Year Posted 2013

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Just Souls


I use to walk down the Cafe Street.
The place of my reminiscence is in the South.
The jooking was heard throughout this section of town.
Leland, Mississippi is so quiet now.

Walking through Uptown finds peace from the noise that made the City sparkle...

The wigs were beautiful that women wore.
The men in their Stacy Adams shined on the dance floor.
An A-line dress or maxi maybe a  miniskirt you would wear.
You were dressed to kill.
Turn your man's head with jealousy.

He would shout and tell you that you are with him.

You were as jealous when you lost his attention.
An argument may start if he was not so careful.
However, you would make-up because he would defeat the purpose.

This is your long-term relationship - nothing more in it!

You bleached your hair and put aside your wig.
Striking features, this gave.
He had matured as well.
You are now a couple for fifteen years.
Not married just don't see a reason to do that.
You laugh and say if people talk who gives a damn!
Our love stands the test of time.

The ending is not told, just souls.

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014

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He was a serial lover

He was a serial lover.
Like no other.  
His words flowed like smooth swoon song.
Led you away, took you along.
Feelings spun, you lost control.
Dressed to kill, he knew his role. 

Wandering across the night,
He moved and prowled without fright.
Youth’s passing moonwalk phase, 
Did no end make his craze.
He was a little man,
Not by girth but wisdom’s span.

With his belly full of oats and fire,
He chased the flames of love’s desire.
His music touched most every heart, 
Even those not prone to start,
Sweaty hot lightening trysts,
Whose sorry dawn would end in mists.

In the morning folly was blamed, 
On fire even the shrewd are tamed.
Shaking off the heat of lust,
His women did what women must:
Left and right they looked in vain,
Only finding a superlative stain.

The tiger was gone, off and far,
A winking door left ajar. 
Evening’s delicate victuals taken,
Most satisfied and now awaken,
He conjured yet another plan,
Oh this beast, this brute, this little man!

Seasons passed, years went by,
His naughty charms refused to die.
With a skip and bounce,
His paws did announce,
“I got you, got you my little prey,
Stay and play just today”

Reckoning’s day came pretty slow,
His magic began to lose its glow.
The girly ladies who made his fame,
Conspired all to stop the shame,
Seated by a blazing fire,
Chants were sung to stop the liar.

Spirits conjured to slow him down,
A watchman posted in every town,
His limbs by spells began to shrink,
Especially one that could not think,
Of a life devout lived in chaste,
Or the fire gone beneath his waist.

With speed did rumors make it known,
Just to leave the fox alone,
On every door a note was posted,
Never again was the tiger hosted.
Nights now spent in aimless drift,
Every move evoked short shrift.   

Alone he wandered, alone he sailed,
All his pleas always failed.
Eons it took for reality to dawn:
His presence hardly nary’d a yawn
By the babes once at his feet,
They now stood grinning at his defeat!

How his heart bled in memory’s lane,
For the lovely birds his ways had slain!
Thinking of all the dames,
He failed to remember their cuddly names.
He once was a serial lover,
With a story like no other.

Copyright © Yorn Called | Year Posted 2014

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Sneaky Humidity

“All dressed to kill; please don’t let it rain!”
Hours spent with flat iron
Straightening out the curls
Here comes sneaky humidity to undo this “do”


Copyright © Annalise Brigham...a.k.a. Audrey Haick | Year Posted 2011

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The Poem 

Spit and glue
Tape on glasses
Lace on wrinkled rumps 
Lipstick on lizards
Ants in bee-hives
Parties in the cemeteries
Toothfairy bank robbers
Dunces in libraries.

Rhymes on caution signs
Large Letters for the deaf 
and hearing aids for the blind-
I think, to see a cripple crabs with crutches,
bow-legged spiders with a pigeon toe-ed cat.
Or a knock-knee-ed rabbit- with a Multi-Colored Bat 

Apes eating hor devours
Amish wearing Hats no-more

Imagine the scenic scene 
That we would see-
If the Sky replaced the sea- 

Spit and Glue will never do-Spit 
won't do, when you need glue.

Dressed to kill with taped up glasses,Lace on strippers
with wrinkled rumps 
It's a crazy poem but I really feel
You should never read rhymes on  caution signs.


Look up here
have no fear – 
There have been 
accidents right here- 
When you slow up 
to read this rhyme
you may get hit 
from behind
cross the white 
line and smash 
over the medium

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014

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Color me white like the color of the wall
Color me white to be seen by all
Color me white to stand tall

The patches of black all over me 
The dark spots that all can see
Are my prison cells, I want to flee

Blow me away winds of change
Blow me away winds full of rage
Take me away so am no longer strange

Sponsor	Catie Lindsey
Contest Name	No More Masks! 

Helene Johnson

Poem: Bottled

Upstairs on the third floor
Of the 135th Street Library
In Harlem, I saw a little
Bottle of sand, brown sand,
Just like the kids make pies
Out of down on the beach.
But the label said: “This
Sand was taken from the Sahara desert.”
Imagine that! The Sahara desert!
Some bozo’s been all the way to Africa to get some sand.
And yesterday on Seventh Avenue
I saw a darky dressed to kill
In yellow gloves and swallowtail coat
And swirling at him. Me too,
At first, till I saw his face
When he stopped to hear a
Organ grinder grind out some jazz.
Boy! You should a seen that darky’s face!
It just shone. Gee, he was happy!
And he began to dance. No
Charleston or Black Bottom for him.
No sir. He danced just as dignified
And slow. No, not slow either.
Dignified and proud! You couldn’t
Call it slow, not with all the
Cuttin’ up he did. You would a died to see him.
The crowd kept yellin’ but he didn’t hear,
Just kept on dancin’ and twirlin’ that cane
And yellin’ out loud every once in a while.
I know the crowd thought he was coo-coo.
But say, I was where I could see his face,

And somehow, I could see him dancin’ in a jungle,
A real honest-to cripe jungle, and he wouldn’t leave on them
Trick clothes-those yaller shoes and yaller gloves
And swallowtail coat. He wouldn’t have on nothing.
And he wouldn’t be carrying no cane.
He’d be carrying a spear with a sharp fine point
Like the bayonets we had “over there.”
And the end of it would be dipped in some kind of
Hoo-doo poison. And he’d be dancin’ black and naked and      Gleaming.
And He’d have rings in his ears and on his nose
And bracelets and necklaces of elephants teeth.
Gee, I bet he’d be beautiful then all right.
No one would laugh at him then, I bet.
Say! That man that took that sand from the Sahara desert
And put it in a little bottle on a shelf in the library,
That’s what they done to this shine, ain’t it? Bottled him.
Trick shoes, trick coat, trick cane, trick everything-all glass-
But inside-
Gee, that poor shine!

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015

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Luck and Heaven

If I am in Luck, Heaven is near Showered and waxed,good atmosphere Dressed to kill or should say thrill His libido has gone downhill Viagra worked, gave a thankful cheer
Penned May 21 2015

Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2015

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A cowboy of old, the wild west kind
Lived by a strict code you will find
Fed any stranger and his horse
No questions asked because
Next time, next town he might be
That stranger needing help you see
Rode with the animals slept by a fire
Living in a house was not his desire
Could tame a horse in no time at all
A  brave soul that followed natures call

Not like the cowboys of today
Who dressed to kill would look away
From a stranger needing a meal
No code of honour does he feel
Has Sunglasses pushed up on his head
The old cowboy would rather be dead
Than look like today’s cowboy with trainers on
No leather chaps with fringes upon.

Always  I will visualize when the word cowboy I hear
A crinkly faced western cowboy in charge of  wandering steer

Penned April 13 2014

Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2014

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Distressed by Rob Barratt

My furniture is all distressed
It's unusually unstable
The oak bookcase is quite depressed
As is the coffee table

The worktop has a thin veneer
It seethes beneath the surface
The taps know how low they can… sink
And think life has no purpose

The painted window frame's been stripped...
Of dignity. It's lacquered
The blue front door's morale has dipped
The cheese board is cream-crackered

The writing bureau doesn't give a jot
The cupboard suffers mockery
It hates the plates and has no mates
It misuses jugs...and crockery

The kitchen table's past is stained
The dishwasher has worries
Last week it broke down and explained
That it was missing Curry's

The settle never settles
And the new desk is neurotic
The chaise longue is invariably wrong
The sofa is psychotic

The fey pouffé is apt to weep
It's covered in wet tissues
The rocking chair, it never sleeps
The magazine rack has Big Issues

The bed’s always horizontal
The tallboy’s a cross dresser
The umbrella stand is second hand
And feels its worth is lesser

The mirror which reflects, neglects
The fine wine rack which whines
The shelves themselves lack shelf-respect
The dining table pines

The mantelpiece has no mental peace
It's fired up with wrath
The woodburner has lost its spark
The wardrobe is a goth

The exposed beams aren’t what they seem
The ceiling's always plastered
The landing has a manic stair
It's an evil little bastard

The piano's case isn't black and white
The floorboards feel downtrodden
The dressing table's dressed to kill
The mini-bar is sodden

The Ottoman is not a man
But it's no couch potato
The teak footstool's a crazy fool
Who quotes in Greek from Plato

Yes, my furniture is all distressed
But they've reason for concern
Oh... I must get it off my chest
...Tomorrow they will burn!!

(sing to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood)
I once had the best
Furniture but 
It got distressed
So I lit a fire isn't it good?
Norwegian Wood.

Copyright © Rob Barratt | Year Posted 2013

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Friday night and I am already high as a kite plus this is a girl’s night out.
I will take a nap to lower my high and awaken ready to party.
This is my night to enjoy me.

I am awoke and sober.
The clock ticks four p.m.
My arousal is provoking incitement.

Humor the soul
Ignite the spirit
This is my night out.

I move to my closet and chose my outfit.
My selection is a sky blue maxi.
I smile mentally and know this well get me attention.
I am single by the way; however, I have had prior engagements.

In the club now, loud and rowdy, my wit will not end.
I am drinking bourbon.
Shall I go straight tonight or am I a gay girl?
My sexual feeling is driving me wild.
Has my sex partner made it in the house?

Humor the soul
Ignite the spirit
This is my night out.

Boisterous I precede.
He enters via the east wing.
He is dressed to kill.
I sashay toward him.
Someone pulls me on the dance floor.
He takes a seat and waits for me with eyes glowing.

The dance ends.
He holds out his hand.
Together we leave.

Specters we are.
Spiritually alive!
This is my night out.
Penned on May 07,2014!
For Kelly's Deschler Night Owl Contest!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014

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Pied piper Spider Spidy

                               Pied piper Spider Spidy web poet of Lill
                        Jabbed by muse Arachne she got dressed to kill
                                   She met her hubby Punisluffer
                                    An web ballet choreographer
                        In fret and flirt she chomped his heart-a lovechill

Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014

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Out On The town

We are girls out on the town
Dressed to kill in sexy gown
Where we meet and mix with boys
But remember we’re not toys
We shall dance and taste some booze
But we’re careful not to lose
The composure and decor
Do not say we are a bore
Just behaving as we please
We can flirt and we can tease
Showing off with mild intent
Till the night is almost spent
And deprived of all its sheen
We go home in limousine
A quick shower, straight to bed
What a lovely time we’ve had!

Contest: Gender Bender
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux

Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2014

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Two Pairs of Shoes

Two Pair of Shoes

My Loafers wandered out one day
when I (too lazy) chose to stay
home alone and drink Bombay,
one evening in the Spring

They came upon a pair of Heels
that walked the streets in sexy squeals
composed of skin from river eels,
one evening in the Spring

They danced the night away that June
underneath the bright blue moon
As Frank Sinatra slowly crooned,
one evening in the Spring

But when the sun rose in the morn
the pair, exhausted and well-worn
tiptoed home, alone, forlorn
one evening in the Spring

Nine months later, dressed to kill
The Heels appeared and stood quite still
to present to Loafers…an Espadrille
one evening in the Fall

Copyright © Judy Valko | Year Posted 2017

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Two weeks before the killing
She had that feeling
Truth could not be swayed
By this tourist’s agenda
She knows no baptism
That is a word of foreign origin
A horrendor ordeal
Good report for the press

While for my interests it strikes an appeal
Appetite for a thought’
The voice news paper states
“Identify the alleged assailant”
While the Eco has put an identity parade
Grieving the death of a new bride
Hijacked by the city lights

They were last seen..
The middle star bar..
From afar
Dressed to kill
Red shot skirt
Marching sharp heel boots
She got the last kiss from a bottle of savanna
She had been engaged for a while now
Suddenly there is Silence………………!!!!!!!
Have they found the assailant”?

Nobmath@ DYSIS inc 2012

Copyright © Nobert Mathumo | Year Posted 2012

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I lacked a lot of sleep these past couple of months.

and abandoned the routine I’ve grown so comfortable with

in this time by myself.

I didn’t realize how much slack was in my learning curve lately,

and I was starting to forget how incredible it is to wake up by

hairs being plucked from my arms.

Miracle workers.

My mother is the only one who saw me lose patience.

2 am on the wood floor, sweating like I just got done fighting.

Spewing out questions to God as fast

one would spit out sour milk.

Ground stomper. Neighbor waker.

A lot of people didn’t really like me talking to them during this time,

just like I didn’t like anybody talking to me

when I’m too busy worrying.

I was a jerk.

My swings get triggered far less than ever before

now that I’m more squared up with stability.

I’ve come a long way from a short fuse.

I sure am glad my brother was there to cover for me

while my sanity took a break, and

in the moments I had to check out

because the tantrums in my own mind got too loud.

My own thoughts, or yours. 

Together or separate. Relative or irrelevant.

It has been a roller coaster school year so far

for more reasons than are appropriate to detail herein.

Thank goodness for the true friends,

and the doors of her aunties house

and ice cream, and mindless television on soccer trips,

and family,

and people looking at me like a role model,

and the act of blowing on my little cousins belly,

and my skateboard, and Mother’s Day,

and having food, and graduations,

and getting lost sometimes,

and poetry slam night, and for Steven Brooks.

and for my elephant.

Really y’all, every last one.

L. Cohen said,

“And draw us near

and bind us tight

all your children here

in their rags of light

in our rags of light

all dressed to kill

and end this night

if it be your will.”

Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2012

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Demon Daughter

Deal breaker,
agenda maker, 
Your dressed to kill in Style
This world you scan ,
you subtly plan
With a snicker and a smile
On naive souls you prey
Who cross your way
And fooled to give their love to you
You build their trust
Blind them with your lust
Then crush them when your through
Demon daughter
The souls you slaughter
Can never love again
You laid them bare
Trapped in your snare
To live forever with the pain

Copyright © Carl Fraser | Year Posted 2014

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Dangerously cunning,
dressed to kill, she plans his 
downfall, relying on 
debilitating strength.
Driven by greed she acts:
Deft hand of betrayal	 
dealt by a femme fatal. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 
Contest: Pleiades - D
Sponsor: Kim Merryman
Placed 3rd
© 29th August 2016 

Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2016

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Faux pas Epigram couplet

                                        Faux pas
Dressed to kill in midnight black, nine inch heels and a blood-kissed pout,
She tripped on the hem and fell on her dainty ***, embarrassed no doubt.

24th November 2015
Contest: Epigram couplet
Sponsor: Silent One

Copyright © Ajitha Sharma | Year Posted 2015