The Lesser Evil

Empty as death and slow as pain     The days went by on leaden feet;     And parsons week had come again     As I walked down the little street.     Without, the weary doves were calling,     The sun burned on the banks of mud;     Within, old maids were caterwauling     A dismal tale of thorns and blood.     I thought of all the church bells ringing     In towns that Christian folks were in;     I heard the godly maidens singing;     I turned into the house of sin.     The house of sin was dark & mean,     With dying flowers round the door;     They spat their betel juice between     The rotten bamboos of the floor.     Why did I come, the woman cried,     So seldom to her beds of ease?     When I was not, her spirit died,     And would I give her ten rupees.     The weeks went by, and many a day     That black-haired woman did implore     Me as I hurried on my way     To come more often than before.     The days went by like dead leaves falling     And parsons week came round again.     Once more devout old maids were bawling     Their ugly rhymes of death and pain.     The woman waited for me there     As down the little street I trod;     And musing upon her oily hair,     I turned into the house of God.