Paris
Best not be rosy, you steamy old wench,
the air has no words for your vomit and stench.
Hardly, if ever, do teeth so hard clench,
yet the waste of your life is a moldy brown bench.
What hell decomposed to sordidly drench
the world with your tears like a hog in a trench?
Lapping a river of gold could not quench
the cracks in my throat from the twists of your wrench.
So fall off a bridge or meurs in your French,
Do me the kindness, my disgust you'll retrench.
Fresh wild violet, my angel of night,
fountains of silver gleam not like your light.
The heavens recoil upon your plain sight,
and in your resplendence the gods have no might.
No simple pleasure, the depth of delight
that drips from the branches, your soft limbs of white.
Worthy are none to present as your knight,
but swords all drawn, over your bed they fight.
Madame, I do beg you, lay rest to my plight,
A wench you may be, but a rose true and right.
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