An Irish Lass

The preacher, who was dressed in green appeared short-winded, on the scene. He'd had a helping of pink gin which God did not regard as sin. The Devil though had been a guest and drawn a vision of the breast with all its soft and luscious silk the image of sweet human milk. And there, in Aberdeen's own mud she rested, covered by red blood. His pupils widened as he knelt and timid fingers shyly felt beneath the blouse of cotton blues for signs of life and God's own dues. And with a cry of sheer despair he placed his lips into her hair then slid, with loving gentle moves down to those warm familiar grooves. And rested on her nipple's rose his tear-stained cheek and grieving nose. Townspeople soon left them alone their secret pact would not be known.