Our clean curved mouths are cold and dead. 
Our polished skin is marred. 
Our tawny thighs are thick with dirt. 
Dented, cut and scarred. 
Our day is done. 
But once! 
Our open mouths blazed Death's caress 
Our tongues with steel were tipped! 
Ah! Bitter spinsters were we then 
As we slashed and cut and ripped! 
Our youth was filled with lovers 
All laughing joyous boys 
Who stroked our slim, proud beauty 
Their latest, deadly toys- 
Then clean and fresh and polished 
We went forth with the dead, 
The living, lovely, happy lads 
Whose last touch dyed us red- 
Then supplanted like all harlots 
By the newer fresher one, 
We turned to rest and quiet 
As our kind have always done. 
With a printed tag about our throats 
To inform our lovers' sons 
We're an Ordnance Exhibition- 
The Convent of the Guns. 
TenEyck Van Deusen