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.

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