I am a born child of Badajoz,
Blessed daughter of Holy Spain.
A whore to French gentle-men,
But a life of little gain.

I am lucky and I am cursed,
I am taken for beauty,
To please each Master,
Or suffer much, much worse.

I suckle a golden child,
From a French Captain or same,
One of a dozen, a score,
No father to give her name.

I must tease each eager phallus,
With red lips and soft tongue,
Often in a duelling pair,
More than once to a line-up strung.

With swords drawn blood ready, 
And each man fully addressed,
The dark wine fuels their ardour,
My naked body is stung and caressed.

Breasts are slapped and handled,
Teats are pulled so cruel.
My rear is flailed with cane,
Rope trussed and led for a mule.

For jest and for carnal pleasure,
I am sheared of my dark down,
My shame is widely splayed, 
A prize of the Emperor's crown.

I am taken, once and again,
I am taken by each and all,
I must take French seed to my belly,
I must take French seed to my gall.

There are no cries, there are no tears,
My weakness, my trial, my fate,
If this is God's will, to bear,
If Mercedes shows me how to wait.

My child is my will to endure,
So my child is saved from grace
To seize a free Spain from tyranny
For her to take her rightful place.

The seige is deadly upon us,
I see French fears grow and grow,
Day by day it approaches,
But my body suffers each English blow.

A distant glimpse of coats of glory red, 
Of flags, of horse, a bloody end in sight,
As cannon spew fire into our breaches,
I am used and used afore the final fight.

Silent prayers, an English deliverance,
God's victors in red, green and braid gold,
Bringing food, wine and free sustenance,
Bringing peace, love and send French cold.



I am a born child of Badajoz,
Blessed daughter of Holy Spain.
I am hidden in terror flight and fear,
My holy mother is wild English slain.