Gone is the cover,
gone is the cave,
spy planes all hover
over the knave,
be they all writers,
be she a slave,
gone the late nighters
into their grave.
Swinging her necklace,
twisting her hips,
quipping and reckless
while Ben Jonson quips:
Drink to me only
with your black eyes,
in Charleston lonely
Lot sits with the flies
and dreams of the Easy
where girls speak in verse,
and salt margaritas
and empty his purse,
and dance on the table
while home on her plot
her pal Cain kills Abel
and salts Mrs. Lot.
Now they are diminished,
the fools and the wise,
the daughters are finished,
the patriots, spies,
professors and poets
the pearls and the swine,
the seas and the Moets,
Tequilas and wine.
LRH
4.24.06
Inspired by GWH's Salacious
Linda Hepner
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mrs-hedy-lot-as-dorothy-parker/
