Her eyes are red balls of fire
And yours reek of lusty desire
For she is beauty in your ugly shire
That has slowly reduced to a mire
Why blame your thirst on her attire?
It’s your salacity and urge to sire
Why else did you get her for hire?
She’s a woman not a bunched quire
But like a dessert she’s laid for the squire
Awaiting her fate at the isle of the spire
With beady eyes full of hatred and ire
She gives in to her fate and into the hellfire
*Dedicated to brides who are sold for money in remote areas of India*