LeAnn Trudeaux

She'd barter with the devil over her soul...

With hips like Josephine Baker's,
full lips clasping a long, thin cigarette,
she could leave sinful thoughts on any man's mind,
his morals, she could easily make him forget.

She'd barter with the devil over her soul,
sell her mama's for a dollar,
steal your husband with a smile sly as a fox,
in bed, make him think he makes her holler.

Most nights she hung around the Moonlite Lounge,
drunk up to her eyelashes on Coke and rum,
demanding men to keep buying her drinks
for a quick pat on her bum.

On open mic nights, she hogged the stage,
certain she could out scat any jazz singer.
She kept a Lady Smith & Wesson in her purse,
shot at whoever she thought had wronged her.

One fall, she had a fling with the town madam's husband,
the six-foot, dark-haired C. T. Smart.
Now, her name is a whisper, quiet as the blade
that pierced her heart.