"It must be nice," the serpent sighed
Unto the young and guiltless bride,
"That though your tender skin is bare
As is your mindscape, you don't care!
But don't you hate your lack of pride?
Insist that you be dignified!
For what's the use of truth untried?
So ripe and juicy, hanging there...
It must be nice."
This foul advice the snake supplied.
It made the maiden turn aside,
Away from His despairing stare,
To bittersweet, enticing fare,
And reaching for the pome, she cried,
"It must be nice."
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