Any port

There’s a dowdy lives in No. 6,
I’ve seen her on the stairs,
all taffeta and crinoline,
aristocratic airs.

I heard her talking yesterday
to the hag in No. 5:
‘Might I borrow some vermouth,
just to stay alive?’

‘Since my Quincy passed away,
one doesn’t venture forth,
the streets are fraught with danger,
oh, and have you any port?’


 

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