19th Century Love
“Let us go, my dear,” I said,
in whispers soft and sweet.
She giggled in reply and answered,
“It’s 15 pounds per man I meet.”
I agreed her price was due and fair,
and we continued on our walk.
She laughed again, took my arm and said,
“I do much more than talk.”
At this I laughed, and with my Roxanne,
walked away in pace quite haughty.
She chatted away, with no idea,
that I planned to be quite naughty.
She never noticed that I’d turned her,
down an alley black.
And never saw the knife’s bright flash,
as I plunged it in her back.
Her honeyed curls illuminated,
the darkness of the street.
And I drift to another corner,
and whisper soft and sweet.