Soho’s Polly (Nichols)

That Ripping Knife finished off,
in a gruesome fashion,
what the Bottle had already started.
The Soul doesn’t get
much more Shipwrecked
than that of an alcohol,
Rough Sleeper…
out traipsing the cold,
early morning,
darkened streets
around Trafalgar Square.
Tis 3 pence for a tall glass of Gin,
or 3 pence for a Doss-house Bed,
and it’s the very same price
for a trip betwixt your legs
… but, there’s always
at least one Public Tavern
between where you’re standing
and a manky, rented pillow.
The ‘Fates’ are never kind,
after a bad choice has been made…
but, those ‘Fates’
don’t have themselves a Heart,
feel the bitter winds
biting sharply into their bones,
nor need to medicate
the mess and damage
alive inside a Streetwalker’s head.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.