The last two women folk of the garden came a callin’
Upon their kindred first and an angel fallen’
Armed with medieval broadsword each has in hand
To put an end to a coup most assumed heavenly bann’d
And rest assured their moods were most sullen.
No word exchanged – the angel meant to kill with first strike,
But the garden’s second feign’d a jump to the right (a sly psych)
And down upon the angel’s neck with bloodied blade
Did the last sever head and body from Satan’s maid;
With the first remarking to the two, “oh, how much we are alike!”
So now stood the three wives of the first man to be
Bound together by heartless treachery of overly phallic glee
Yet forever two separat’d from one through a human loving vein
For which the first spat upon the two last with much disdain,
And remark’d, “sheathe your weapons as you will not kill me.”
The two bound by their private shames laugh and ask’d why not?
We demand a payment for the angst you wraught!
Those you have struck down were demonic, true?
No mortals did either of our swords run through –
We rend’d no human flesh to rot.
See? Slay me not for you are unable
For I still fall under the human label
And any blood spilt from my bodily form
Will lock your garden’s gate from you in the coming storm;
Or attack now if belief of that commandment is fable!
The two last trodders of the garden laid down each their sword,
Realizing they were stuck in a wretched accord.
The first turn’d to her animal form quick
And flew away, leaving the last two morally sick
Yet feverous to continue to their quest of death to their former lord.