Gone is the cover, <br />gone is the cave, <br />spy planes all hover <br />over the knave, <br /> <br />be they all writers, <br />be she a slave, <br />gone the late nighters <br />into their grave. <br /> <br />Swinging her necklace, <br />twisting her hips, <br />quipping and reckless <br />while Ben Jonson quips: <br /> <br />Drink to me only <br />with your black eyes, <br />in Charleston lonely <br />Lot sits with the flies <br /> <br />and dreams of the Easy <br />where girls speak in verse, <br />and salt margaritas <br />and empty his purse, <br /> <br />and dance on the table <br />while home on her plot <br />her pal Cain kills Abel <br />and salts Mrs. Lot. <br /> <br />Now they are diminished, <br />the fools and the wise, <br />the daughters are finished, <br />the patriots, spies, <br /> <br />professors and poets <br />the pearls and the swine, <br />the seas and the Moets, <br />Tequilas and wine. <br /> <br />LRH <br />4.24.06 <br /> <br />Inspired by GWH's Salacious<br /><br />Linda Hepner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mrs-hedy-lot-as-dorothy-parker/
