The River Tiber

Then the silk-smoth skin parted -
peach dissolved leaving a crimson tide in its wake;
I pray, stop now children, this isn't for the fainthearted,
for it would it would make even mighty Hercules shake;

The Tiber rose, and like a rose bore it's jagged thorns,
that from them the crimson tide did quench
the edges' insatiable thirst for death-without-warns
over the soiling and violation of a tavernwench.

To-and-fro, the tide did consistantly go
untill, the Tiber burst it banks and when
the tide will never be high nor will it be low,
for it is gone and will never return again.

The tide remains forever out,
the sacrilege soils the stone,
the clouds of tears start to pout
"Little Lucille ain't comin' home"