THE PROPHECY (a Scottish bar-woman’s poem)

Tis was foretold, in the days of old,
That the prophecy would come to be,
With snicker, snack, and baldio trap.
T’was I, who was granted a vision to see,
When your aura and soul be not a glow,
No seed be harvested from that you may sow,
All the waves shall fly high, into the skies, and,
The clouds be the colour of blood to you’re eyes,
When all around you, temptation,
Be disguised in feminine hips,
And every drink you swallow,
Be but dry on your lips,
For this my son shall be shown to you, it shall be the end of time,
And do not confuse my words with an illogical, childish rhyme,
For in this time if you choose to lose your head,
You’re bound to be left in a ditch for dead,
For you shall meet no friend to you, but only a fancy foe,
And this was foretold and I fear it shall be so.
For you see the world will pretend to love you,
But only for the man they choose to see,
But just as they love you, so they crucify you,
By their rules of vanity.
So they say it be a Scottish maiden’s tale,
That now be known as the prophecy,
No one believes it to be true, well only I do,
And for that you’ll be questioning my sanity.

By: Xanthia Amy Pheonix Dean