All Her Lenins

I find myself not liking nudes,

While me and she are reading Jude.

I prefer to take off a little,

Stripping them down to a whittle.

In the midnight hour,


When the silhouettes fill the walls,

The halls are darkened, city lights.

A brasserie with lights out at this hour.

The sounds of a girl once dressed as an Alsatian,

Who dresses instead in the patterns of a dalmatian,


Stripped of all her linens.

I wonder what my Russian friends will think,

Who fled from Vladimir Lenin.

As I the night goes out in a wink.

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