Post War Glamour Girl

expresso bongo snaps of rome – in the latin quarter of the ideal home – fucks all day and sleeps alone – just a tiger rug and a telephone – says a post war glamour girl’s never alone.

in the seventh heaven on the thirteenth floor – sweethearts’ counterparts kiss – limbo dancers under the door – where human dynamoes piss – adults only over her pubes – debutantes they give her dubes – beatniks visit with saxaphones – and the way she eats her toblerone – says a post war glamour girl is never alone.

mau mau lovers come and go – dreamboats leave her behind – a baby-doll to go man go – on the slopes of the adult mind – a murder mystery walk-on part – a dead body or a gangland tart – near the knuckle close to home – criminal connections you can’t condone – a non-doctor’s anonymous drone – says a post war glamour girl’s never alone.

the section of the populace – they call the clientele – the moguls of metropolis – defenestrate themselves – in the clothes of a rabbit – you develop a twitch – one of the little sisters of the rich – amorous cameras clamour and click – her rosary beads are really bones – rebel rebel they bug your phone – the post war glamour girl’s never alone.

yes there’s always a method actor hanging about – there goes mr tic-tac out of the back – with some bric-a-brac from the knick-knack rack – the dumb waiter reminds you of home – and the nice boy from sierra leone – the action painter’s got up and gone – nevertheless it’s never been known – for a post war glamour girl ever to be – what you would call – irrevocably – alone.