Woe to you, O Babylon!

Your daughter has been desecrated;

By the hands of the ruffian,

By the touch of the villain.

Purity has been defiled,

Innocence has been cast to the wild.


The virgin has been soiled.

The young woman has become a harlot.

The corruption of the mind begins in youth!

Who is responsible for her mis-education?

Has there been an immoral paternal or maternal division?

The tutor has much to be maligned for!


Now there is no redemption!

The whore flaunts herself before the altar,

Her chastity decorated by the veil of purity!

She has paraded in the name of decency.

Her lovers gather to witness her illegitimacy.

There is no threat to her behaviour!


A husband by word has no place;

A ceremony is a ridicule of its custom.

It carries no weight before heaven,

An unclean act cannot be purified,

It tarnishes the vessels employed,

It is neither saintly nor sanctified.


There are many to whom she calls;

There are those from whom she begs heat;

To be splayed upon the horn of plenty,

An unholy cornucopia of substance.

Her breasts are displayed wantonly,

She is stroked, not soothed for her satisfaction.


There is no charm where open thighs pulse;

The offense of her body, one sense,

The message of desire is massaged,

Inviting the most penetrating intrusion.

The kiss of desire is most demanding,

The muscles comply with their intonation.


Is there a man who will reject the advance?

The grape of the vine is intoxicating;

The aging of its juices set the flavour,

There are many aromas that develop.

The maturity of the body is determined by experience;

The connoisseur will choose the most succulent!


Babylon has been brought to many locales:

Her children display her characteristics.

Clothing does not cover her nakedness,

It is the decoration of her lewdness.

She thrusts her invitation openly,

She is impatient to be sated.


Tongues do not employ words to speak!

They savour droplets of musk, sweet and sour,

Salted flesh burns into the buds,

Driving spasms to deeper pits and crevices.

Fluids merge in the salivating of the probe,

The tool which now explores its opportunity.


The breast rises with each panting pulse;

The crimson bud, erect stands, at the centre,

Of a shaded globule, of varying circumference.

The milk of kindness can be a succulent morsel.

Thirst is slaked at the valley floor;

Is the grass and moss the same as wet flesh?


The waves of undulation ripple to the crest,

The mount stands at its highest peak,

Of sense and sensitivity, signaling,

The coarseness of its message to the depth,

Awaiting the crowning presence,

Of statuesque and robust thrusting!


O Babylon, you draw your slave and master,

Closer to your selfish epicentre.

You reject the rights of all,

Who would claim to be your preference.

You give no weight to claim of fealty,

Suffered by any one who may have been devotee.


What place does love have in your bosom?

The value of truth is known only too well!

The cover of discretion indiscreetly lies;

The satisfaction of love will not be found,

Unless the search is focused at your thighs.

The day and night equal to dark and light!


Where is your contribution to the spirit?

You are prompt to satisfy desire;

For all who come will gain by it,

By the willingness to give the easiest.

There is no pledge of loyalty to one;

There is no singular relationship that has merit.


You seek forgiveness for your sin O Babylon;

Yet you are only too eager to enjoy the fruits,

Of repetition and to repeat your action.

There you ply your trade wherever you may gain,

A profit, of bodily delight, before you are asked,

To give nurture and to faithfully remain.


You have a guardian O Babylon, yet you mislead;

You cloak the eyes while the breast you reveal,

You are sensitive to the touch of fingers free;

They wander over the length of your chastity,

Unfettered you have been and many have received a key,

To enter in at any time when you can take all as you will achieve.


There is no cover to your deed!

There is no room of memories that can be closed;

The past is equally a part of the present.

You cannot turn your face away,

You cannot close your eyes and shut out,

The individuals who have shared your jewels.


O Babylon, you have been more than a city;

You are each innocent maid who is now corrupt,

Drawn by the thrill of the crowing cock,

Standing to recapture each beautiful morn!

You have been taken and given that one thing,

The thrill and excitement of being crowed upon.


Are you responsible for your own action?

What drives the most placid individual,

To be wild and to unleash sexual fervor,

For which there can be no averting?

Compassion once committed is unleashed,

To be a constant and aggressive postulation.


Where are you now, O daughter of Babylon?

You are hidden in the most obvious of places;

You have bound yourself to righteousness,

Only to shatter the dream and to bring corruption.

You continue to draw your strength from others,

There is no freedom for the captive of your wiles.


For whom should pity be offered?

For he who is lost in the folds of deception,

Or for she who knows no better solution.

Who is most deserving of a blessing,

The point of delivery of transgression,

The forgiveness and holy affirmation?


Man has fallen may times!

So has Woman!

Who is it who is the weaker sex?

He who cannot refuse to follow the male urge,

She, who, like the open flower, waits to be fertilized;

Both intrude, or precipitate the pollination.


The rose is plucked for its beauty;

Each flower, a bud, that will eventually be full,

To give sweet fragrance and temporary decoration,

To adorn all manner of dress and deportment;

Once removed from its true self it soon withers,

To be no more than a passing pleasure discarded.


We cry for you O Babylon, the tears of pity!

There is no measure to which you can attest.

The most rewarding gift that we can give,

Lies lost long ago with false deity,

You alone can find release from how you live;

To bring a quality to life that is of the least impurity.


June 5th. 1996 © Will George.


Will George Poet