Black Ball

There are lists miles long I’ve heard,
Where people reside faceless,
Black specters in a white desert.
There are those of the deceased,
Lists of soldiers and sailors,
And those of the living.
Lists of the wedded and the armed,
But then there are those on a blacker plane.
Where the specters may haunt,
And yet not know why, or even that they are there.
At the head of such lists are those
That claim certain things aren’t important
To them; to love.
Yet in a short while, they contradict their stance.
Next are the names of those with no false claims,
Although more blunt, at least more honest,
Just a genuine wickedness.

These are the names of woman who have slipped,
Whose tongues have let loose
The most wicked words,
Those words that make me cringe.
It’s a list I’ve been keeping
For a number of years,
And it may go for five miles
Or more before it will end.
And you can probably safely bet you’re there.
But don’t you fret, you’re in good
And voluminous company.