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

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