The sound that scurries across the hill was sent along by a maid on the pill.
She is a virgin of heart and prosperity, but her body and her heart do not quite agree,
Because thinking won't bring back virginity.

The maid returns to knitting her skirt while flicking her toes and kicking up dirt,
Her friend stops by to confirm he's a buddy; She secretly imagines him crying and bloody,
Yet her skirt looks so fresh because her feet are so muddy.

Her friend waits around for a comment or two, for without it he questions just where he'll go to.
She isn't afraid of his needs and reliance, but answers so quick with a hint of defiance.
The art of decent is finely tuned science.
Finally in angst, he heads for the street and casually mentions "you better clean up your feet."
First, no response as she shuffles the lace. Then, she stands up and spits on the floor with haste.
In literary terms this is called a bad aftertaste.

The sound that scurries across the hill was sent along by a maid on the pill.
She is a virgin of heart and mind; She is only as vicious as she is kind;
She once was a woman of mine