Legend, Poetry, Quirky

Grace

She sits in church all proper and prim

A voice of an angel she sings loud The hymn

Dressed in white, from head to toe

A radiant vision, Warm ivory glow

Her name is Grace, she lives in Tralee

A courteous respected lady, is she

Always at church, a community helper

Bakes really nice cakes with tireless endeavour

At night in her flat alone, with her cat

She waits for the knock on her door

Dressed now all in black with a mighty fine rack

She gulps down glasses of wine

Her tongue on her lips, Suspenders on hips

The clock says, a quarter to nine

Any time now her men will arrive

Eager to please her, once more

Five, six, or seven,  and maybe some women

She loves all ’till she’s sated and sore

The biggest secret in this lovely old town

Sweet Grace is a nympho

But don’t tell, Miss Brown

©paul

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