She would laugh and chat
In the Hotel bar,
Makeup skilfully applied
To obscure the scar,
Gift from a Matelot
Too drunk to perform
So demanded acts
Far beyond her norm,
And when she refused
As he ran from the place
Pulled out his knife
And slashed at her face.
That callous act
With that knife
Had ruined plans
For her future life.
But she never complained
About futures long gone
Just accepted her lot
And carried on.
Just a working girl on
That street of pleasure
Joining us now and again
For her few hours of leisure.
For a time she was, maybe,
A friend we would to meet
In the Hotel Pronk Bar
On an Amsterdam Street
Half a century ago
All those years gone
But my memories of her
Still live on.
A woman of courage,
A person of style
Who made me laugh,
For a little while;
Who by example
Made me think,
And, now and then,
Let me buy her a drink.
In memory, now, her beauty
Enhanced rather than marred
By the fact one cheek
Was lightly knife-scarred.
