And so when the chequered tablecloths
And the laughs of merry harlots
Behold this last putrescent shril??
To the foetid bre??
And the laughs of merry harlots
Behold this last putrescent shril??
To the foetid bre??
I thought of our old song and
A blue river under an old bridge
And colour on a faded canvas
And esoteric similes of friendly women
Against the dark and raving pain
Of a poet’s eye and then I thought of Beatrice
(Dashed off by Ellis in a post liberation binge at the Brasserie Universelle, Piccadilly)