In an antiquated walk-up
by John F. McCullagh
in an older part of town,
The photographer waits patiently
for her to shed her gown.
His output decorates his studio walls.
Please don't be confused.
These are pictures, without exception,
of tasteful female nudes.
Some are done in sepia tones,
others in harsh light,
Each girl eyes you wantonly
with the promise of delight.
His model for this evening
is an old grand-dame in pearls.
Her eyes, half blind with cataracts,
have seen the wonders of the world.
She reclines upon the bed
in his suggested pose.
Her arm is draped across her breasts.
So many men had fun with those.
He has a special camera,
unique of all its kind.
It has a special lens
that takes its subjects back in time.
The old girl, there on the divan,
In this lens is twenty-three.
Her eyes are clear, her silver tresses blonde,
Her youth restored miraculously.
Her fingers play with her string of pearls.
She enjoys the cool air on her skin.
Once more she knows the pride she felt
when she could tempt a priest to sin.
Their time is short, soon she must dress
And face the world as a withered reed.
She gladly pays the photographers price
for this great service in her hour of need.