Her face is beautiful, her figure fine,
she was all the things you'd wanted,
she was everything, divine.
Yet beneath the angel wings,
lay a nest of wasp and hornet,
you could've looked and looked
but never seen the stings -
and who were you, to have known it?
And who were you, to salt the wound?
To tempt, to tease, then try to soothe,
it was not chess, and it was not your move,
but you made it - now lay in it,
and let your guilt forever be your tomb.
