Leda of the Grosse Freiheit

St. Pauli

Where, puckered by the steady rain,
New posters edge the Nachtlokal,
A naked Leda, eight feet tall,
Intimidates a swan-boat swan.

Procurer, doorman, barker, bard,
In one creation, inexact,
Announce the come-on as the act.
And who, of stark true action, hard

To stomach, harder to describe,
Will make such myth as staggers myth?
Will tell, in literal, strict faith,
How, in a filthy mudhole, bribe

To any pervert, yet there mired
Still in a slut’s one innocence
Of motive and of consequence,
A fat whore straddles her stuffed bird.