Tavern Wench

Peasants clinging pints
together slurring their
drunken songs,
while the Irish
wolfhound digs at
his fleas by the crackling
fire,
laughter from the
painted whore rings in
the ears of the
horny
lonely men,
she bounces down the
stairs to collect
the next frolic,
they lick their dirty lips
and wipe off their
wired beards onto their
filthy sleeves,
the stench of beer and
smoke invade every
corner of the
pub,
with a wisp of the
whores perfume  lingering
in the nostrils of
the buyers,
each one spilling their
ale as they wait
their turn with the
tavern wench.