Great farmy whores, breasts bouncy more
Like buttocks, and with buttocks like
Two white sows jammed in a sty door,
Are no dunghills for bawdry’s cock.
 
Nor tigery tarts, with rubber backs,
Switches for tits and neon blood,
Hurdling the beds, their silk in shrieks,
Can ever come at bawdrihood.
 
All iced—wedding—cakey dolls,
Molten in May’s bubbly vat,
Gulped before their sugar cools
Sicken Bawdry’s ostrich gut.
 
And the foxy slut who still
Scrubs at carrion with her brush,
Demuring down the marrage—aisle,
Can make bloody Bawdry blush.
 
Not in down—trousered slovenliness,
Nor vomitorial gluttony,
Bawdry’s needle nakedness
Has this diamond in its eye:
 
Time was Tailfever struck this town.
          There was not one cramped street
But stroked itself to trembling curves
          When he glanced at it.

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