Joséphine
Once it sung by the serpent’s tongue, when forth the sugar seedlings sprung
That there, from the sweetest, sweeter had come, by the bosom of Rose-Claire
By men of slaves her childhood thrived on which they fairly well survived
But a cursed occurrence; the wind their concurrence, the fields were raped all bare
And being the approach of a feasting roach, auntie Edmée aired the bottom bare
Of Joséphine de Beauharnais
The walnut grove of grand Paris bore witness to the church’s decree
Their pompous branches wrapped around her, having bound her there
The girl was taken by her hand, not once, but twice the countess, and
Thereabouts, she shot her sprouts from the love that lacked its flare
Two came about, fifteen falls fell in and out, but yet no flare
In Joséphine de Beauharnais
Then once upon the dreadful reign, in shackles leaving his champagne
The viscount of her love, half whole, extol his loss in the affair
Went along the streets all strapped, cobbles mostly and gravel scrapped
Cuffed in steel, maligned, not far behind, came his bride with lank hair
‘’Tis what saves her’, he cried out loud ‘this bloody pleasant shape and hair
On Joséphine de Beauharnais’
A million miles from home and farm, clutching cold bars in the Carmes
The foal was freed of fence on the expense of one Robespierre
Despite the fate of the white snake’s miss, by court her hubby received the kiss
Serving his scalp the same swinging axe as Max the Révolutionnaire
The blade dripping, slipping into the neck of His Révolutionnaire
Not Joséphine de Beauharnais
Once a filly, now a mare, a widowed Mustang in vanity fair
A weary date since her leery trait was the mistress’s affair
Sneaking below her soft, young skin, the lonesome feeling of thrilling sin
‘Be warned of this way of life; of beauty, urge and it all beware’,
He was told, ‘of the prancing, of the dancing, above it all beware
Of Joséphine de Beauharnais’
In the midst of August proudly born, the Leo in its glory his people scorn
But by rage his cheeks blushed not, he thought, but by she who is so rare
She, scented in a fire’s fume, by lips and chest plump, abloom
Nay, not by rage, nor by dismay, his need grew greater than he could bear
‘Rosy red, I awake full of you’, as he said, he could hardly bear
His Joséphine de Beauharnais
The lustrous whiskers on his lip, tingled slightly below his tip
Bushy mane of neck and top, could not stop, so well aware
That between both quilt and sheet, to the lark’s heartfelt tweet
Secrets are both hers and his; silently spoken in the kiss she shares
A future warms his chest; only something his heart suggests he shares
With Joséphine de Beauharnais
The ninth finger from the right, was decorated in crystal white
By any other name, the smell in his nose, his darling rose would swear
Her hand to him through thick and thin as their fairytale begin
The lion and his young dame, with a name, made an enviable pair
With Fortune in her grace’s embrace, the most sought-for part of the pair
Was Joséphine de Beauharnais
To destiny and back again, a locket to their love sustain
To destiny, ride forth, march on, that feeling he must at once declare
Hooked behind her long white neck, the charm that held a tender peck
Two words he engraved upon her heart, that she will always wear
‘To destiny, to destiny, until your grieved death you shall wear
Us, Joséphine de Beauharnais’
But alas; her groom’s flock of home, rode off to meet their fate in Rome
Their general leading the way to the great, claiming to have been there
Biding then their lonesome time, spending apart their love life’s prime
Passion of most vigour, from their purest core, through letters they share
Love at its lustful coveted peak, by written words aplenty he shares
With Joséphine de Beauharnais
‘In my arms, on my lips, my breast, resting softly upon my chest
Take wing, my sweet adorable one, and cross the clouds and air
For no fatigue can ever do what this heart endeavours by thoughts of you
The fatal battles these troops withstand will never in this life compare
To how you hold my deepest love forever and ever, never compare
To Joséphine de Beauharnais’
Despite the hot blood in his vein, her love was one to trick and feign
For behind the loving man, she saw just the care of a millionaire
With its warmth and security, a thousand miles from her said purity
She found it in the shade of society, laid in Hippolyte’s nest and lair
He hid below the heavy cloths, beyond the soul, down a hole in his lair
With Joséphine de Beauharnais
Atop a ridge most far away, the word reached his bleeding soiree
That she, in lack of his comfort rich, had sought fresh to his love forswear
No feelings but fury for fortnights in end, no affection nor hot letters to send
Behind dead eyes of lion and man, swarmed new feelings he brought to bear
Never, though always would his great love again be brought to bear
For Joséphine de Beauharnais
Upon the return to their Milan, where once the honeymoon began
Each of every room laid in forgotten gloom and nowhere
Could he find the only thing, worth more than dreams of being king
Nine days he spent on his own, being alone, whispering ‘beware
Beware! If I only would have listened to those words; beware
Of Joséphine de Beauharnais’
‘I love you no more, beastly *bunny*; what my heart pours is hatred abut
Never you write me, never you miss me, never about me you care
Soon, or hopefully sooner yet, my body will hold you to quickly beget
So that I even sooner can have your bear the duty of an heir
And yet even sooner can drench my sorrow in the morrow of an heir
In Joséphine de Beauharnais’
It was a flattering day of spring, the birds returned with voice and wing
But something swept the land, as it was cunningly planned right there
That the sandy land of yore must be seized, with Nile and more
But the glory lasted not, forgotten was, when her father did out bear
That rumours were most certainly true, that vile shrew; how could he bear
His Joséphine de Beauharnais?
‘Hippolyte dearest, lover and friend, this must be the last letter I send
I feel, though never fear, that they’ve caught the scent of this affair
They have naught but my disgust, you have my all; I hope you trust
I am yours, all yours, simply yours; the truth is just that sweetly bare
You rest within my every ounce; of that they can never strip me bare
Your Joséphine de Beauharnais’
In the lions eyes his bride’s deceit, would grow into affection sweet
When they bunt her sneaky back, ready to attack her every err
A lioness by night and day, that all the years his wants array
Comfort of his wealth at the price of hearty health; a life-long snare
No mercy left at his command, but the hand with a tightening snare
‘Round Joséphine de Beauharnais
So saddened was both beat and pace, that sadness hardly was the case
No, from his body it had been ripped and left an unhealed tear
Sympathy, like night in the day, had never seemed so far away
Instead the bleeding cut was filled with shallow amour Français
Ventured only the laurel wreath with Cleopatra Français
Not Joséphine de Beauharnais
‘Trustworthy Joseph, comfort me, this is not you brother, but his debris
My grandeur, my glory; without trying I can no longer care
My age is mere, my person grand, and with France at my command
I should find my happiness within this soul, but nothing is there
I have now exhausted everything, when all that once was there
Was Joséphine de Beauharnais’.
That there, from the sweetest, sweeter had come, by the bosom of Rose-Claire
By men of slaves her childhood thrived on which they fairly well survived
But a cursed occurrence; the wind their concurrence, the fields were raped all bare
And being the approach of a feasting roach, auntie Edmée aired the bottom bare
Of Joséphine de Beauharnais
The walnut grove of grand Paris bore witness to the church’s decree
Their pompous branches wrapped around her, having bound her there
The girl was taken by her hand, not once, but twice the countess, and
Thereabouts, she shot her sprouts from the love that lacked its flare
Two came about, fifteen falls fell in and out, but yet no flare
In Joséphine de Beauharnais
Then once upon the dreadful reign, in shackles leaving his champagne
The viscount of her love, half whole, extol his loss in the affair
Went along the streets all strapped, cobbles mostly and gravel scrapped
Cuffed in steel, maligned, not far behind, came his bride with lank hair
‘’Tis what saves her’, he cried out loud ‘this bloody pleasant shape and hair
On Joséphine de Beauharnais’
A million miles from home and farm, clutching cold bars in the Carmes
The foal was freed of fence on the expense of one Robespierre
Despite the fate of the white snake’s miss, by court her hubby received the kiss
Serving his scalp the same swinging axe as Max the Révolutionnaire
The blade dripping, slipping into the neck of His Révolutionnaire
Not Joséphine de Beauharnais
Once a filly, now a mare, a widowed Mustang in vanity fair
A weary date since her leery trait was the mistress’s affair
Sneaking below her soft, young skin, the lonesome feeling of thrilling sin
‘Be warned of this way of life; of beauty, urge and it all beware’,
He was told, ‘of the prancing, of the dancing, above it all beware
Of Joséphine de Beauharnais’
In the midst of August proudly born, the Leo in its glory his people scorn
But by rage his cheeks blushed not, he thought, but by she who is so rare
She, scented in a fire’s fume, by lips and chest plump, abloom
Nay, not by rage, nor by dismay, his need grew greater than he could bear
‘Rosy red, I awake full of you’, as he said, he could hardly bear
His Joséphine de Beauharnais
The lustrous whiskers on his lip, tingled slightly below his tip
Bushy mane of neck and top, could not stop, so well aware
That between both quilt and sheet, to the lark’s heartfelt tweet
Secrets are both hers and his; silently spoken in the kiss she shares
A future warms his chest; only something his heart suggests he shares
With Joséphine de Beauharnais
The ninth finger from the right, was decorated in crystal white
By any other name, the smell in his nose, his darling rose would swear
Her hand to him through thick and thin as their fairytale begin
The lion and his young dame, with a name, made an enviable pair
With Fortune in her grace’s embrace, the most sought-for part of the pair
Was Joséphine de Beauharnais
To destiny and back again, a locket to their love sustain
To destiny, ride forth, march on, that feeling he must at once declare
Hooked behind her long white neck, the charm that held a tender peck
Two words he engraved upon her heart, that she will always wear
‘To destiny, to destiny, until your grieved death you shall wear
Us, Joséphine de Beauharnais’
But alas; her groom’s flock of home, rode off to meet their fate in Rome
Their general leading the way to the great, claiming to have been there
Biding then their lonesome time, spending apart their love life’s prime
Passion of most vigour, from their purest core, through letters they share
Love at its lustful coveted peak, by written words aplenty he shares
With Joséphine de Beauharnais
‘In my arms, on my lips, my breast, resting softly upon my chest
Take wing, my sweet adorable one, and cross the clouds and air
For no fatigue can ever do what this heart endeavours by thoughts of you
The fatal battles these troops withstand will never in this life compare
To how you hold my deepest love forever and ever, never compare
To Joséphine de Beauharnais’
Despite the hot blood in his vein, her love was one to trick and feign
For behind the loving man, she saw just the care of a millionaire
With its warmth and security, a thousand miles from her said purity
She found it in the shade of society, laid in Hippolyte’s nest and lair
He hid below the heavy cloths, beyond the soul, down a hole in his lair
With Joséphine de Beauharnais
Atop a ridge most far away, the word reached his bleeding soiree
That she, in lack of his comfort rich, had sought fresh to his love forswear
No feelings but fury for fortnights in end, no affection nor hot letters to send
Behind dead eyes of lion and man, swarmed new feelings he brought to bear
Never, though always would his great love again be brought to bear
For Joséphine de Beauharnais
Upon the return to their Milan, where once the honeymoon began
Each of every room laid in forgotten gloom and nowhere
Could he find the only thing, worth more than dreams of being king
Nine days he spent on his own, being alone, whispering ‘beware
Beware! If I only would have listened to those words; beware
Of Joséphine de Beauharnais’
‘I love you no more, beastly *bunny*; what my heart pours is hatred abut
Never you write me, never you miss me, never about me you care
Soon, or hopefully sooner yet, my body will hold you to quickly beget
So that I even sooner can have your bear the duty of an heir
And yet even sooner can drench my sorrow in the morrow of an heir
In Joséphine de Beauharnais’
It was a flattering day of spring, the birds returned with voice and wing
But something swept the land, as it was cunningly planned right there
That the sandy land of yore must be seized, with Nile and more
But the glory lasted not, forgotten was, when her father did out bear
That rumours were most certainly true, that vile shrew; how could he bear
His Joséphine de Beauharnais?
‘Hippolyte dearest, lover and friend, this must be the last letter I send
I feel, though never fear, that they’ve caught the scent of this affair
They have naught but my disgust, you have my all; I hope you trust
I am yours, all yours, simply yours; the truth is just that sweetly bare
You rest within my every ounce; of that they can never strip me bare
Your Joséphine de Beauharnais’
In the lions eyes his bride’s deceit, would grow into affection sweet
When they bunt her sneaky back, ready to attack her every err
A lioness by night and day, that all the years his wants array
Comfort of his wealth at the price of hearty health; a life-long snare
No mercy left at his command, but the hand with a tightening snare
‘Round Joséphine de Beauharnais
So saddened was both beat and pace, that sadness hardly was the case
No, from his body it had been ripped and left an unhealed tear
Sympathy, like night in the day, had never seemed so far away
Instead the bleeding cut was filled with shallow amour Français
Ventured only the laurel wreath with Cleopatra Français
Not Joséphine de Beauharnais
‘Trustworthy Joseph, comfort me, this is not you brother, but his debris
My grandeur, my glory; without trying I can no longer care
My age is mere, my person grand, and with France at my command
I should find my happiness within this soul, but nothing is there
I have now exhausted everything, when all that once was there
Was Joséphine de Beauharnais’.