Ambiguities Poem by Mark Heathcote

Laura liked to think she was honest with herself;
it was everyone else she lied to.
At times she could be dishonest almost unawares
with her colleagues, but cosmetics
didn't grace her with any extra confidence as a rule.
Yet, men in their minion's would fall into her snares
and be embraced, encased, imprisoned
like some fallen horse chestnut
to be buried and prised open or devoured later.
Laura, you-could-say was naturally uncannily blest
she had well-developed assets, but that wasn't
what carried her endearingly-ever-forward
or marked her out as someone that could find a loophole
in any binding agreement, Laura thrived on ambiguities
and squeezed out omissions from the tightest-lipped
hard-cases the nastiest people on the planet.
Yes, Laura liked to think she was honest with herself;
an asset to law and the legal profession the prosecution,
but she was as much imprisoned as her co-defendants
when it came to taking her 10: 30 holy sacrament's confession.
Laura quivered like a little lamb, said, Father forgives me
For I have sinned, and then would go on to fabricate
make up fictitious stories, falsehoods that'd make your hair-curl
Laura, it must be said wouldn't have made the priesthood
but she sure knew how to hurl a barstool, swear profanities
and drink hard liquor as any other 'I-haven't-a drinking
problem fool' that didn't do so well as her,
following comprehensive school.