The Gloved Whips
I know a game, that women play
That make men, into game
Soft gloves, turned into whips
To keep the men away!
But foolish lovers do ye see?
Ye hunting with fever fervor
What ye hunt, hunts thee!
White hands upon thy brow
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Drive thee not like men, but cows!
Listen now, of the game
That make men into play
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Seem as sunlight in the May
But as ye hunt those hands of hers
She tames thee as a dog
They teach tricks! But they the curs!
Holding, using, and abusing those
Soft gloves, turned into whips
That drive thee to farming, and they the hoes!
Doubt me not, nor doubt
The game which women chase
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Turned to turn thee out!
Faces fair and seem fair to eye
Ye think ye might win this game
Beware! Her fickle's as fair as die
And thy heart, ante she gambols with.
Soft gloves, turned into whips
That's all they are, in their pits and pith
Once I saw, a farmer hunt
He took up the bow and sought
Soft gloves, turned into whips
He really wanted a wet...kiss
But his lady's heart was stone
She took his land, but kept her lips
But better hunted, then ever alone
For the hunt keeps men sane
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Gives a kind of pleasureable pain
Aye, perhaps I am too old
Aye, perhaps too bitter too
Soft hands, turned into whips
Cannot anymore, make me bold
But my age means that I know
And the bitter has a base
Or maybe it doesn't, so?
These verses still ring true
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Still make men black and blue
Oh tell me not! Of your wives
Of women fair, of women true
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Are to your gentle spirits, knives
Ye shall bleed as gutted fish
Give it days, give it years
Aye some do live and die in bliss
But most die in traps
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Around thy neck and hands, wraps
Ye are furs in the stalls
Ye are meat in the markets
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Shall gall thee, give thee galls
Hunt not, or be hunted.
Thy game shall make thee game
Still, perhaps tis enough to be wanted
To lose the hunt, but love it still
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Sharpens the wit, toughens the will!
Aye, no maid, will look on me now
No love, may stir my breast
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Are only bygone vows
But the young must give chase
Run forever for the game
Or like me, death, embrace
Run, ye still-whole-hearts!
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Be at thy backs, forever smart
Aye, the hunt takes life
But gives life its spice!
Soft gloves, turned into whips
Is the sweet with the strife!
Hunt on ye, surefooted shooters
Run wild for thy prize
They are seeking suitors
But shy not from their arrows
Soft hands, turned into whips
Only to see your marrow!