A young woman, not much past twenty,
Carried a wooden basket with a baguette.
Only but a tiny brunette not much taller than,
A slice of baguette.

In the city streets, that indeed smell of centuries gone by,
She wears one pair of sabots, and a torn shrubbish dress.
So much for the glory life, for young Bess.
There was no much talk for sexuality,
Yet her parents hide her behind closed doors,
     To hide that bit of anxiety.

On market days she sells a baguette,
Only enough to pay for light weaving,
     Then she's leaving
For another market day for baguettes.
Days come and go, just like Winter's snow,
And it seems its often cold
     Even when it doesn't snow.

She once knew a man who carried cards,
Who himself was quite a card, yet at other
Times he was quite the tard.
He like ciphers, flowing like Solitaire,
While he give her sips of wine in his lair.
Then he never come home, walking up the stairs.

She was alone, missing, her beloved,
The man beyond the stair.

The highwayman knocks on the door,
     And the lady wishes to ignore,
The creeping sound beyond the door.
     Yet as the stars glisten, glisten in the sky,
She wonders, who is this guy
     Beyond the door.

To think she has went so far from home,
     To only read of an ancient tome, a storybook,
Only to have a man with a rusty hook,
     Knock upon her cottage door.
Beyond the window the day melts into night.
     There was no more highwayman beyond the door.

Still on every night, she has fright,
For she dreads to open her door, for
The unknown man beyond the door.





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