July 8, 2012

Dirge – a lewd Dorothy Parker poem

The way we were became a tale
To caution would-be lovers.
A shroud, a veil, a pallid pall
Replaced our common covers.

Every ride down every street’s
A funeral procession.
An icy grip is every slip
Of your name as it’s mentioned.

The blackbirds in the garden
Sing a misérable chanson.
Oh how I miss the way my lips
Wrapped right around your johnson.

More here.

posted by in boners, poetry | * | 8 comments 

comments

  1. Sheila Ryan on July 8th, 2012 at 9:44 pm

    And I am Marie of Roumania.

  2. Rick Neece on July 9th, 2012 at 8:21 am

    Delightful!

  3. SC on July 9th, 2012 at 4:51 pm

    And that clears up the matter.

  4. Sheila Ryan on July 9th, 2012 at 6:01 pm

    I wonder what it’s like in Spain.

  5. Andrea on July 9th, 2012 at 7:33 pm

    Love her.

  6. Joel Bernstein on July 9th, 2012 at 11:25 pm

    Chanson

  7. SC on July 10th, 2012 at 1:56 am

    Chanson misérable.

  8. Sheila Ryan on July 10th, 2012 at 2:14 pm

    Chanson Misérable is my drag name.