Ma Cheri.

She smiles with a sneer
and dances with spite
She won’t laugh nor cheer
nor speak without fight.

Her hair falls in cascades
of oil and grime
And her skin is as yellow
as stale, old white wine.

Her laugh is a cackle
of dirt, spit and ash
Her eyes are dark hollows;
face covered in rash.

I do not love thee
though some say I must.
But a promise was made
with that one futile thrust.

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