Naked, the hatcheck girl
brings us
beyond haberdashery
to new coatrooms
of delight.
Against the boom boom
of thunder we
see the catacombs
of ancient sin
brought to perfection.
Theodora, you whore;
even the geese were
overpaid, pecking the
grain off your privates,
while generals watched.
That day the Hippodrome
was quiet:
the pantomime mocked
the glorious noisy chariots,
the noisy birds in cages.
Theodora, rant and rave:
your singing voice
nothing but your
stupid skin
shown off in broad daylight.
But the nightingale
is not much
on daylight;
the darker, the better
he sings.
deuce coupe 