And even now above her dusty tomb
Whom he was not allowed to fuck but stalked
With shuffling steps whatever ways she walked
The air we breathe still shivers at her name.
For he commanded us to think of her
And wrote such verses for her that indeed
We cannot help but heed them and concede
How beautiful his praises of her are.
Oh, the perniciousness that man inspired
By praising with such mighty praises what
He only ever looked at, never tried!
For since he sang her he had only eyed
What looks nice, crosses the street, is never wet
Counts as an object fit to be desired.
THE THIRTEENTH SONNET
The word you’ve often said I should not use
Comes from the Italian of Florence
From fica, meaning: vulva. They accuse
Even great Dante of vulgarity since
The word comes in his poems. Today I read
That for this he was vilified as once Paris was
Over Helen (though Paris, it must be said
Had more fun in his story than Dante did in his).
So even the sombre Dante as you see
Got caught up in the quarrels that arise
Around this thing that else earns only praise.
Not only Machiavelli teaches us:
In life and books much hot controversy
Has raged around this justly famous locus.
THOUGHTS OF A STRIPPER DURING THE ACT OF UNDRESSING
My lot it is—the world is such a mess—
To serve as handmaid unto art, my task:
Vouchsafe these gents a little happiness
Yet if you ask
Precisely what I feel as I unwrap
Myself and decorously prance about
Under the golden lamps, doing the strip
I’ll answer: nowt.
I’m sure to miss my bus. It’s nearly twelve.
The cheese is better in the old arcade.
The fat girl says she’s gonna drown herself.
He’s got a blade.
Half-empty. Saturday! It’ll be late tonight.
I’d better smile. The air in here’s a stench
Shut up you hounds, you’ll see ’em soon, all right?
But what about the rent . . . ?
And now I haven’t stopped the milk, not good.
Do I have to show my bum as well? Well quick
I’ll wiggle it a bit, that’s all. The food
In the Yellow Dog’s enough to make you sick.
NANNA’S SONG
1
There I was, just seventeen,
Selling love out on the streets.
Isn’t much I haven’t seen:
Pretty nasty stuff
When the going’s tough—
Fit to turn you off the game for keeps.
(After all, I’m not an animal, you know.)
Just thank Christ the whole thing’s quickly over
All the loving, the worry and fear.
Where are the tears that flowed so freely?
Where are the snows of yesteryear?
2
With the years there’s no mistaking
It gets easier to do—
Up the numbers you are taking:
It’s no life of ease
Your emotions freeze
If you never grant them what they’re due.
(After all, stocks won’t last for ever.)
Just thank Christ the whole thing’s quickly over