Mad Woman

Painted nails, electric blue hair ;
Lives up by the hill in her solitary lair.
An eccentric woman, spouting off opinions;
In all respects, the Devil's minion

"Painted her wedding dress a key lime green, what a scandalous display indeed.
Waltzes through town in her shimmering dresses that may as well be satiny slips...oh good Lord, look. Look at that cigarette hanging off her lips. "

You'll see her, you know, in the shadowed parts of town, dallying with her lovers at the break of dawn.
And at the beach in the dead of night, staring out at the midnight sea, like a figure frozen in time.

"The husband was such a good man, too. Shame he died so young of the flu."
There were vicious sounds of his belt slapping against her skin at night.
Brothel visits and screaming fights, red stains on his collar and bruises on her pride.

"Well, that's no excuse to go strutting around like a common whore.
Forgiveness is a woman's chore.
It's the princesses that shear off their dreams and souls, even in fairy tales and folklore."

In the humble dazzle of autumn, amidst leaves of cinnamon red and muddy brown;
he was laid to rest beneath the stony ground.
And in the melody of her keens and cries, calamity lay within her eyes.
And though her eyes never spoke, I could see
I could fear that wicked glimmer and her thinly veiled sneer.

It was a few days before the madness took shape ; then she was out and about, leaving destruction in her wake.
She erupted in smokeless flames, filled pools with champagne and played dangerous games.
Shed the tulle ts and the bonnets, there are no women like her in Shakespeare's sonnets.
Gauche dresses, colored tresses.
If there ever were something so deadly yet quite so dainty.

Her soul drenched in dynamite ; crackling like illegal firecrackers and twinkling like starry nights.
It seems she carried all that within, a contradiction beyond your wildest dreams.
"Oh hush. Mad in the head. Tears her soul into little shreds.
Heathen of the highest order. Don't go making poetry out of that little horror."
"Oh, didn't you know already, Mrs. Walker? Girl's completely off her rocker."

She dreamed of time machines and revenge,
She had the entire world still left to offend.
On and on she went, like a radio play on repeat...
"Scandal! Disgrace! A woman of the streets."

Agatha Christie and Frankenstein, Patricia with her woes divine, she devours with her hungry mind.
"Mad, mad, mad in the head.
Woman that reads, woman that speaks. Her prospects really do seem bleak."

Gagged her mouth with true love's kisses, trapped her hands with rings and dishes.
Chained her thoughts with barbed wire, now she speaks like she breathes fire.
"Mad as a hatter, mad as a March hare. It's a man's world, care bear. Go fight your battles elsewhere."

"Oh, I'll start a battle all right. I'll scream my madness into the night.
My fortress built so high, the curses and cries ricocheting off out of sight.
I'm a mad woman, all right.
I am not little squeals and giggles, neither a damsel nor a dame.
I am ferocious roars and dragon flames.
The world doesn't like mad women, it likes good little Christian wives. Festering in castles and kitchens, living their eclipsed lives.

The world likes maidens pure and true, not witches with their wicked brews.
So I'll be burnt at the stake, if that's what it'll take. Make me your little scapegoat, stand there and gloat.
But I'm afraid your cinders won't scorch the inferno within. I'm now made of madness and sin."

"Look, there she goes. In her satiny slips. Mad in the head, that one.
Mad as a March hare.
Painted nails, electric blue hair;
Lives up by the hill in her solitary lair."