And winter nights are raw.
And through a steaming window he could see
A saw-dust restaurant; a woman there
Was seated on an ancient lecher’s knee
With hat askew and hair
In blondine-tendrils falling Flora-wise
Over her blinking eyes.
Her lips like currants glistened and her arms
Sticky with strange narcotics, downy-white.
The elder pinched them, sucking in their charms