She was fat as a pimple,
dumb as scum on the Susquehanna;
but no ordinary Philly whore:
she was a drunk dirty lady
from down in lower Darby,
a stinko queen who had,
or one of her sisters,
been on the scene since the beginning of sex.
I creaked up the wood stairs
and swung open the hard-sprung door
into the hallway and the door banged behind
and left me in the dank stink
of fried eggs and catpiss. Ambled down
the butt-scarred hallway
to the number the man sold.
Brushed dust off the knocker
and banged. She waited for the word;
I said it, went in; she kicked over a gin bottle
with a flat grin and etiquette evaporated
as we rolled on the floor like boa-constricted sweathogs.
She was no ordinary Philly whore,
she was a fat dirty lady
from down in lower Darby,
simple as a pimple, ugly as a bug
in a wino’s beard, dumb as
scum on the Susquehanna,
but sexy as that Lexington shot:
you heard convulsing 400 pounds
round the world
that night for ten dollars we made meat sing.
Willie Smith
