Dwalin stood dwarven, deformed and grotesque,
Ever-bent by a hard, hamstrung hunch,
Driven mad by implacable lust for burlesque,
And a one-eyed, French flapper named Monche.
The myopic madam, not without her charms,
Bore a glass eye, white, rheumy and still,
That reflected light onto her pustuled arms,
Which she proudly would rupture at will.
“Money up front, mon amour, s’il vous plaît,”
Hissed her voice through a phlegm-laced veneer,
Smiling sweetly, her scabby tongue slithered its way
Into that which remained of his ear.
If their passion affected the business, although,
The burlesque house was not apt to gauge,
For most just presumed it was part of the show,
As they generally fucked on the stage.