In an estaminet I approach a whore who is lovely,

swelling, smells of lavender sleeping,

I say, can I touch you? And she says, but please..

As the suit of her skin beads then rolls,

I tickle her pilchard toes, I say, should we? she says, of course.

I see her stockings but not her skin,

and I want to live in one of the runs,

to spend my days climbing her handsome things.

Her name is Eliza and she has azure eyes,

fleshy pert lips above slender arms I want to chew.

I tickle her rear and she laughs and she coughs,

How I like her red I thought,

Though she informs me its not, still I thought, but a shade of red…

And I turn to a man to say, kind sir, but what of the night?

Yet again I thought of her and I merely cannot.

As I watch the crease atop her thigh grin atop a set of stairs,

She says, well? And I say how much?