Rue Saint-Denis
In the Paris street
famous for at least 800 years
for comforts and deformities of flesh
a pretty, very sweet
and almost-fresh
young whore approached me:
I'll pleasure you
for just 100 francs, she said.
You have a tender face.
I touched her gently on the arm
and smilingly declined
her old recensions of the intimate
freak-show by which some choose
and some refuse
to propagate the race.
poem by Anthony Weir
Added by Poetry Lover
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