She was a sparkplug,
arms crossed, lips smug,
her roulette refined,
her fate stamped and signed —
diciest dame you’d ever find.

She was a renegade,
twisting tongues was her trade,
born with brass between her teeth,
a clockwork heart ticking beneath —
a queenly ace tucked up her sheath.

She was a sparkplug,
wayfarer whiskey was her drug,
with a corset pin
and a bottle of gin,
she redefined the depth of sin.

© 2015 Stellular Scribe