With white frost gone <br />And all green dreams not worth much, <br />After a lean day's work <br />Time comes round for that foul slut: <br />Mere bruit of her takes our street <br />Until every man, <br />Red, pale or dark, <br />Veers to her slouch. <br /> <br />Mark, I cry, that mouth <br />Made to do violence on, <br />That seamed face <br />Askew with blotch, dint, scar <br />Struck by each dour year. <br />Walks there not some such one man <br />As can spare breath <br />To patch with brand of love this rank grimace <br />Which out from black tarn, ditch and cup <br />Into my most chaste own eyes <br />Looks up.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/strumpet-song/
