Out Here # 2

by Mr. K

AS night's shadows faded down the alleys
of the draggle-tailed Guttersnipe,
I felt the weight of the Weltschmerz bearing heavily on my shoulders.
I had just spent a long and well ventilated night
with the city's most despicable strumpet
and was raw from the stiffness of her Jack boots
and pizzle.

Deliciously dirty, yet horribly content,
I procured some leaf lard from a local Kneipe
as it only temporarily soothed my Katzenjammer.
As the wail of the street urchin echoed through the darkness,
I took to a drink of Spatburgunder
and readied myself for the inevitable.
Out here . . . you don't want to know me.

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