ramblings and things
1,302,700 poems read
She said her ambition had been
To be both a mother and a wife
But a drunken American sailor
Had carved her with a knife,
Leaving her disfigured in
The worst possible place:
A long white scar extending
Down the right side of her face.
The lover who had let her go
On the commercial sex game
To save for their wedding
No longer felt the same.
And Mary was doomed to follow
The street lady's life
Very little chance now, it seemed
Of becoming a respected wife.
Mary told me her story over a Pils
In Pappa Pronk's canal side bar
On the street of a thousand Windows
Not far from them famous Dam Square.
She laughed and she joked
Said she'd hoped for much more
But life hadn't been so bad
As a scarred Amsterdam whore.
She had money now
Had invested with care
Could retire when she wanted but
What would she do with time to spare.
She was so selective now
With a chosen clientele
And a life that started badly
Was cruising along so well.
She finished her drink
Said she couldn't be late
Had to rush off to meet
A regular paying date.
I thought of Mary years later
When visiting Dam Square:
Over the months at Pappa Pronk's
I'd shared many a drink with her.
And then of course
My life moved on:
Apart from the memories
My Amsterdam days were gone.
I hope she'd retired
To a happy and pleasant life,
Maybe even found a man and became
A much loved and respected wife.
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Drinks With Mary
Drinks With Mary