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A Sonnet for ‘Whores’

Arrow
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A ‘whore’ they call you in their spite.  For shame!
Should men not importune you, (fools and boors),
Who then would stand to shoulder half the blame —
And more than half?  God bless, say I, all ‘whores’.
God knows the murderous strife your need has spared—
The lives and limbs still whole, the mouths still shrill;
Where wives and lovers faltered, ‘mere whores’ dared
To shield us all from tigers at the kill.

Come, Aphrodite’s daughter, raise your head,
‘The Life’ itself is none too clean or pure,
Yet here is one who blesses you instead,
Though all is dog eat dog— and kill or cure.

A ‘whore’ they call you in their spite.  For shame!
Sweet scapegoat, we shall shoulder this world’s blame.