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Oh, there you are Miss Lust,

I missed you last night,

I went looking for you,

from bar to bar,

but no luck.


You fool me sometimes,

I think I want you,

when I find you,

I don’t.


You are a fickle young lady,

Miss Lust, very fickle,

You have powers,

greater than I.


And you disguise yourself,

as love, yes, you do, yes.

Even Eros has fallen,

for your beauty.


Is that what it is Miss Lust?

Is your beauty everything?

Or is it something else,

that clouds my mind?


You hold out promise,

you do, Miss Lust.

That’s it I bet,



Why do you offer Promise?

I offered you naught,

in return for it.

Zilch, nada.


In fact I hate Promise,

and his son, Hope,

two imposters,

Pandora’s kin.


Do you masquerade as Succubus,

Miss Lust, do you, do you?

And you wish me to be,

your fallen Incubus?


It will be so if you would only ask,

I sacrifice my life for one night,

with you Miss Lust, just ask.

I will be prompt, I will!


My reasoning and prudence,

are not shields against you,

Miss Lust, oh no, never.

Only Papier-mâché.


I think it better to avoid looking,

at you, (or for you) Miss Lust.

Better that we never meet,

better to avoid memories.


Yes, – – we have good memories,

of those many aroused nights,

Miss Lust, deep imprints,

upon both our minds.


Why do I keep seeing them,

Miss Lust? I hope not to.

They and you should,

both disappear.


But you don’t, do you,

Miss Lust? Never.

So is it Love,

or Lust?


Oh, if we only knew,

those answers,

Miss Lust.

If only.