Night cries

Hear the hedge-born callet
as she plies her tawdry wares,
among the village menfolk,
in the alleys and the squares.

‘Want some fun, me darlin’?’
‘Does your mother know you’re out?’
‘Like to rub my fubsies
with your big old hairy snout?’

A callet’s catcalls in the dark,
a slapper’s canzonetta,
the music of the backstreets,
destitution’s sinfonietta.


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