The Wedding

A proud man in all-black stands at the altar
A tear in his eye, his best man’s hand on his shoulder
As his love strides across the soft silk,
He turns it over and over in his mind,
The luck that he possesses,
Capturing a beauty of this kind,
Inside and out,
He’d love her always, without a doubt

But the maid of honor looks sullen
She can see through the bride’s disguise,
She turns her nose upward,
It’s so pathetic, how does he not know?
Her dirtiness, her promiscuity,
Doesn’t it show?
It’s practically splattered all over that frilly white dress
It’s almost like she’s keeping score!
If only he’d realize that his bride is a whore…