Mary thought she was a gal in trouble--
Motherhood a certainty.
Impregnation wouldn't let it bleed.
She had slept with the dark prince
Of a British band in the 60s. . .
Post-assignation it's yet to bleed.

Yet to bleed, yet to bleed, yet to bleed, yet to bleed.
There's no menstruation set to bleed.

The guy'd broken her heart, departed.
Left enceinte, apparently,
Was the womb in whom he'd spent his seed.
While she sweated it out,
He sweated out lines of pop poetry
For an album he called "Let It Bleed."

"Let It Bleed," "Let It Bleed," "Let It Bleed," "Let It Bleed,"
On which was the single "Let It Bleed."

She played that single loudly,
Thinking of the singer dreamily.
Reverie-revived, she heard ". . .can bleed. . ."
Words mirrored her menses that streamed;
From motherhood she would be freed
Was the single kismet, "Let It Bleed"?

Menses bleed, let it bleed! Up it's teed: "Let It Bleed."
Kismet, schmismet! It's wet! Let it bleed.