Jochanal (After Wilde) Poem by Morgan Michaels

Now, John was not a bad looking dude-
a smelly diamond in the rough. All the same
when he snubbed her in the market place
she burned with shame.
'Mama', she complained, 'he was RUDE!
and clearly at blame.'

She was nonetheless a bit surprised,
when Herod, shaking off his trance
smiled and pledged her 'whatever'
merely for dancing a dance,
and when Mama commanded
'Child, his head'.

What could she do?
She must, as the law bid,
study to be a dutiful daughter;
so, richly scented, grazing his leg, she pled
for the simple gift
of John the Baptist's head.

The king's face fell with regret-
that was not wise,
John oddly popular, after all-
but fearing if he compromised
it would be all over town
nodded, finally, sighed

And within the hour a guard in golden greaves
returned with the head in a pail
only it wasn't handsome anymore.
The king puked and grew pale
as she fetched it out, kissed it's lips
and danced it around the hall.