Them Foundlings

They are a sign of repent and release,
in given by their sights as been,
in the long hours gone in the open dry air,
they’re a sight to behold,
abandons dress to the nines,
alluring and smiting for what they give,
it’s just a night to forget,
in lust and drink,
how bare their skin can be in those clothes,
cloth so out of place to all else,
a large neon they be,
brought from the bigger cities,
for us simple folk to forget,
just how human we are meant to be,
in the ways of the sands tend,
to just bake our minds,
we end up forgetting after the cattle brought,
gold in the pocket,
the sheriff even taking a night off,
to be with the head ringer of those abandons,
little youthful foundlings,
coy by the face,
yet their words are drowning tightly of silk,
burning hot wax that you just can’t pull away,
the saloons roam with them,
for how they could run without them,
welcoming just by the flesh hooked out,
maybe now a days,
they might be a dime a dozen,
put lowly as they are called out,
they might be a street prostitute,
back in time,
they were queens that made most back in the wildest,
of cowboys and Indians,
that even back,
burn a fire by their most,
tamest of gossips tales,
of a lone ranger,
looking for a good night.




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