She was a spinning top,
a whirling dervish,
a blond cliche.
More easy than profound,
They ask about Cain,
and say ‘fuck Abel.’
Red eyes boiling,
like a pot of crayfish.
It stinks.
They call him a “John”
or a “mark” or a “willy.”
A “happy man”, or sometimes a “salty dog.”
But he’s the money man.
There’s this place I know,
straight down from Shitsville, and to the West .
It’s a broilin’ sleez pit,
run by Rocco.