Bliss

The less said about Edward’s slut the better;
Nobody knows who she is or how he met her,
With her waterfall of yellow-colored hair
And feet like scissors points, a shocking pair.

Melancholy of love improves her lies,
Melancholy of gin makes deep her eyes,
Melancholy of streets refines her touch,
Sweet melancholy of tongue and teeth, and such.

When summer evenings come across the tracks
We spread ourselves with beer and paperbacks;
Down comes Edward, powder on his face,
To take his slut out smooching every place.

Bliss is nice, but a little bit will do.
Edward has had too much, and his slut has too.
Only to see the hoof marks in their eyes
And hear them wheeze, would make a fellow wise.