On Francisco Goya’s painting of the same name.

And, merit fate, the wine had overflown
Holofernes’ wrath; Judith’s blade shone
As, to the nurse, she confided her plan:
I’ll slay this man by beheading him twice
If you’ll watch the door.
She leveled the knife
To equal her own head, and entered:
War,
Who played your whore, might have stayed faithful if
You’d honed your lust.
Her first strike felled that stiff
Lower head. She scoffed:
Impotentate.
Cast
Aside, that mass lay limp; all the less, he
Wouldn’t be aroused. Pulling his hair, she
Took aim at his higher head.
Your king paid
You well; you said no man could stand against such
As the likes of you. You were right.
She struck.