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A Street Too Far

An English toff is looking for a bar

to have a jar before the day is done.

In Little Lon’ he finds it none too swank;

there is no bank nor ’stablishment of note.

He’s come by boat and doesn’t have a clue

what he should do now threat’ning night is near.

So, out of fear, the first lit door he spies

he turns and tries. He’s beckoned to a couch

where three girls slouch, their dress décolleté –

too much display for gentlemen like him.

The light is dim, the air pungent with myrrh.

He feels a stir, and thinks he should depart,

when one sweet tart gets up and grabs his arm.

She does have charm; he lets her lead the way.

Perhaps he’ll stay to have a good night’s … rest.

At her behest he shuffles down the hall.

(Before a fall, men often feel immune

from certain doom.) He lies down on the bed,

his clothes all shed, his expectations high.

He heaves a sigh. It doesn’t take her long

to sing his song and soon he’s fast asleep.

He slumbers deep and doesn’t hear the shark

who in the dark with clothes and purse makes off.

An English toff was looking for a bar –

one street too far.