As morbid as it gets...

 The Courtesan

Raindrops on the window pane

As the moon begins to wane

The streets of Venice flow with fog

All our heroine can hear is a dog.

The flashes of men as they grunt and grind

Taint the purity of her mind

The warmth of a stiff man inside

Sends nausea upon her like a giant tide.

A blood red dress with lips to match

All the more pretty for eyes to catch

As men pass the shop cursing the snow

They melt at the sight sitting by the window.

Sipping slow on her wine

She daintily looks at the time

Flicks an ebony lock off her neck

Admiring the absence of any speck

On the fair face of her reflection

As strangers stare at the store’s selection

Widened eyes at the Venetian vision

Like the masks of a mystical mission.

The Trojan Horse walks up to her

Black leather coat lined with fur

A married man waits in the hall

Nine inches long and six foot tall

He owns the old bookstore on the left

An urchin always accused of theft

Her father used to take here there

Before he got shot at the fair.

She’d seen the life leave his eyes

While they stood near the stall of pies

The blood began to pour down his mouth

While she stared at him in doubt

They took her to the brothel that night

While she had lost her father’s sight.

“He doesn’t like to wait, get off your perch”

Says the woman with the torch

She had some charm, that long ago

Left her face while she grew old

But she took her in that night when

She was taken away by strange men.