The Old Town
In the streets on which
the sun the good Lord made
refuses to shine –
keeping people warm
in other parts of town
takes up all his time –
a young girl sings the song
that whores have used so long
to broadcast their charms:
what you still don't know
is something I can show
you only here between my arms.
And if, with her young years,
her competence is clearly
open to question
a little practice will
give her all the skill
she needs for perfection.
Ah by Juno how it
used to be so different
in days of yore
when a person had to
have a real vocation
just to be a simple whore.
One leg over here,
one leg over there,
bloated with wine
four retired old boys
(and one and all half-poisoned),
passing the time.
And come rain or shine,
this is where you'll find them,
always together
Bibulously guzzling,
fouly imprecating
women, government and weather.
They're just searching for
a little happiness,
inside a glass
in order to forget
the many times that they've been
kicked in the ass
Some small joy there'll be,
in their agony,
with wine on their lips
and across their face
a little smile will race,
as they all cash in their chips.
Elderly professor,
in that darkened hallway,
who comes to meet you?
Could it be the only
one who still has got
something to teach you?
The one of whom, by day,
with great contempt you say
that she's a wife-at-large;
the same one who by night,
adjusts to your delights
the prices that she's going to charge.
As you close the door,
you'll feel you need some more
if you're to get your fill,
putting off until
the last day of the month
paying the bill.
And when you cash your pension
check you'll find there's nothing
left to enjoy.
You pay 10,000 lire
just so you can hear her
tell you you're a naughty boy.
Down towards the port,
where the air is fraught
with smells of decay
thieves of every kind
and murderers you'll find,
come night or day.
And if you can brave
the narrow alleyways
along the old wharf
you'll see the crazy guy who,
for three thousand lire,
sold his mother to a dwarf.
An upright citizen's
opinion of such men
is bound to be harsh:
You'll probably think that they
should all be locked away
to die behind bars.
But if you look at them
from top to bottom then
you'll certainly see
if they're not pure inside,
they're still their mothers' pride;
they're victims of society.
