Beauty of a Bìtch

Her beauty mellowed the muse of keys
Each eye riveted from the bounty of thieves
Every man bowed his gun from her celeste gaze
Bewitched by the bìtch with hair of golden maize
In days where her arm was something to be feared
When each breath promised last and rightfully revered
Soon words became weapons and death did not differ
With echoes of pyre and lead forever with her
Though soon she forgot the mercy not upheld
As days no longer cared for what each hour held