And she's no more
A ****** than that
Magdalene who
Dried the feet
Of Christ with
Her hair, said
O'Brien, giving
You the wink and
Nodding towards
The girl at the bar
With the skirt way
Above the knees,
Carrying a tin for
Some charity, laughing
With O'Connell, giving
You the eye and O'Brien
The pip and shaking
The tin around the bar,
Like some ***** in
Biblical times ringing
Their bell and old Mrs
Murphy smiled a smile
Broader than her hips,
And you shaking your
Young head, looked back
At the girl and her tin
And the way she walked
To the door with the
Backside sweet enough
To fill a thousand dreams.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 2:14 PM UTC
And she's no more
A ****** than that
Magdalene who
Dried the feet
Of Christ with
Her hair, said
O'Brien, giving
You the wink and
Nodding towards
The girl at the bar
With the skirt way
Above the knees,
Carrying a tin for
Some charity, laughing
With O'Connell, giving
You the eye and O'Brien
The pip and shaking
The tin around the bar,
Like some ***** in
Biblical times ringing
Their bell and old Mrs
Murphy smiled a smile
Broader than her hips,
And you shaking your
Young head, looked back
At the girl and her tin
And the way she walked
To the door with the
Backside sweet enough
To fill a thousand dreams.
2009 POEM.
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