~Poor Jill~
 

Dean Kuch

He had beaten her bright blue eyes so black

poor Jill couldn't quite choke back the tears,

nor soothe red welts rising upon her back,

nor wash away her young daughters fears.
~

Her spouse now of twenty long, wasted years;

none of them would she ever get back,

hatred burning, digging like piosoned spears,

biding time, poor Jill planned her attack.
~

At last, one deathly still  October night

with her daughter tucked safely in bed,

she flooded her home with warm candlelight,

her intentions much darker instead.
~

Home later that night, so red faced and drunk;

he went up the stairs, into her room,

finding his daughter tucked into her bunk;

such a tender young blossom to prune.
~

Naked, he slithered in next to the place

where he thought his young daughter lay still,

finding instead the wicked smiling face

of his own tortured wife, his poor Jill.
~

“Where's my baby, bitch?” was all that he said,

before the knife went deep in his heart.

“Oh sweetheart”, growled Jill, “Why, she's in our bed,

and I'm waiting to tear you apart.”
~

Poor Jill arose, the beast finally now dead,

tipped a candle and started the flame,

and took her daughter from off of her bed

hoping fire would cover her blame.
~

Poor Jill and her daughter never were found,

the fire surely had taken it's toll.

The whispers and murmers all still abound,

about Jill and her young daughters soul.
~

Sometimes late at night, when the moon is right

and crisp October winds howl forlorn;

screaming is heard, noone saying a word,

about poor Jill, the young woman scorned.