Honey was her name

 

Honey was her name.
Pleasure was her game.
No one found her tame,
the woman who had no shame.

Saturday night found her
In her red bustier,
black fishnet stockings,
mini mini sparkly skirt,
red-soled stiletto shoes.
A strutting cliché for the ages.

She was a vamp,
a scamp
an overused tramp
but
no one could fault her heart.

She wanted to be a singer,
not with karaoke but
for real, for real.
Tried out for a band but...

Her talent was lacking.
Bitterly resenting her fate,
Honey married a stockbreaker.
Settled into suburban life.

Three kids and a tummy tuck later,
Honey left to find the starshine.
Hubby took the kids and
met and wed a rich lady 
from Boston.

Married life had given Honey a voice.
Contralto, as silky as a vat of olive oil.
She found her fame
on a blue-lit stage.

Now here she stands
mic in hand,
feather boa 'round her neck,
dripping in cubic zirconias.

She's buried the past,
but it will climb from its grave.
Her kids will find her,
worse for wear,
some day.

On her gravestone,
they'll inscribe:

"Honey was her name.
Pleasure was her game.
No one found her tame,
the woman who had no shame."



©Ellen Pepper 2025