In The Bordello

Poem By Herbert Nehrlich

She stuck a Winston 'tween her lips
and flicked her nicotine stained fingers
amply endowed with giant hips
and wore perfume that somehow lingers
then they went up the stairs to bed
to do some urgent fornication
and in the morning they were dead
it was a sober revelation
for in a brothel no one dies
because a brothel ain't a clinic
for you who frequents there and buys
you are a slimeball, I'm a cynic.

Comments about In The Bordello

Everyone is holy in church pews or in bordellos, I think William Blake said that, if I'm mistaken, I said that-all the best, Herbert!


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