Ballad of the artisans whore in the time of Pope Innocent. |
The Artisans Whore Jezebel, young girl at ten Watched her father sculpt molten glass Her mother tamed the youngest ones And along the lightning, time had passed In the summer rains she stood silent, Always a quiet child As the inquisition taught her violence Her family’s death most vile Solemn, staring up and up Boots, chainmail, plated amour, The lecherous eyes, Sinful sighs Of her new, most terrifying owner This man of god, this champion, Debauched what innocence she had A young child yet, the age of twelve He said to her, “My god is glad,” No privacy was she allowed, Withdrawn inside her thoughts Cloaked in kindness he corrupted her And made her cold and hard Upon the age of seventeen, Her lusty owner traded her flesh for coin And into the hands of the unknown She was delivered from his loins The new man said, “Be free! Be gone!” But her eyes held terror of a greater unknown And so he sighed, seeming resigned, And took her into his home “You will assist me,” he ordered brusquely Striding towards a block of finest marble With a marked hesitance she followed And from then on evolved a marvel In the months to come This woman grown Would fall in love With her masters own And in her assurance He fell in turn And the lovers rejoiced After each piece of work Renowned she was! This striking beauty, Exclusive to his art Though offered princely sums, They never did once part The papacy, Pope innocent Took on a jealous rage The most magnificent, Most renowned whore He never once did taste He sought to buy her, Sought to steal, to seduce, to tame, But Jezebel rebelled against This man who befouled Christ’s name “What god!” she scoffed, “Seeks to rule, through violence, and the blood of innocence?” “What god decrees me, To sleep with his disciple?” “What god kills masses, Bring kings to kneel, And denies each man The divine right, to life, To love, to freedom?” “Who!? Where is your god, Pope Innocent? Where is this holy being? If he exists, as you say he does, Have him strike me down, And only then will I lay with you In the crypt beneath the ground!” So enraged by her rejection, The pope did seek revenge, And on a night most dour Came events to seal her end On the morrow she awakened Whole, alive, and well, But her lovely artisan, Was never to wake, from his cold and seeping spell. Across the city The mourning bells tolled Called the hour nigh And upon the dawn, the night gone long, Ever mortal heard her cry Broken down and desolate She spoke her sorrow loud Across the still air she sang And called the people to a crowd “Mea culpa, Mea culpa!” She cried, “What have I done, what have I wrought?” “How may truth and beauty live, When a corrupt pope gets what he sought?” “When blood and gore and grime Encrust upon Christ’s altar And all the whore’s wicked slime Birth dishonor, greed and slaughter.” “When evil rules the guise of good And oppresses beauty’s life What end will come, what end is there When love lives only in its strife?” Rising from the bloody sheets Of the man who taught her to be whole She swore upon a vengeance, And with a vile heart did go “Pope innocent!” she called to him “Man of god! I’ve seen the wickedness in my ways.” “Come, lie with me, and you shall be pleased for days.” In slimy, lecherous, gloating pride He had her cleaned and dressed for him Then found himself between her thighs A man triumphant, yet again And there in his restful slumber Did she slit his wretched throat A whore triumphant, in his bed The killer of the pope. And never once more would he know The pleasure of the artisans whore |