Poems ✍️

She was still under age,
though what a precious find,
inside a bamboo cage
she looked refined
unwashed and petulant,
dressed in a cotton rag
eyes cried predicament,
a wild girl's silver tag
worn 'round the Roman neck
hands folded, God is deada smudged and crimson fleck,
defiance holds her head.
I pay, it matters not,
all what is mine is hers.
Her skin is red and hot,
she will have real furs
and live to serve just me,
I shall be master now
and teach this little bee
the why, the when, the how.