It's amazing that she could get kidnapped from her home, engage in polygamy with an old hippie and his wife, be 'rescued', go into a media firestorm, practice the harp and still find time to write such poetry. That Brian Mitchell must've had some fine technique or pimp-hand to drive her to write this:
'I am over-run, jungled in my bed, I am infested with a menagerie of desires: my heart is eaten by a dove, a cat scrambles in the cave of my sex, hounds in my bed obey a whipmaster who cries nothing but havoc as the hours test my endurance with an accumulation of tortures.'
O Poor People
Let us invoke a healthy heart-breaking Towards the horrible world: Let us say 0 poor people How can they help being so absurd, Misguided, abused, misled?
With unsifted saving graces jostling about On a mucky medley of needs, Like love-lit shit,