The Dover Bitch
So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc., etc.'
Well now, I knew this girl. It's true she had read
Sophocles in a fairly good translation
And caught that bitter allusion to the sea,
But all the time he was talking she had in mind
The notion of what his whiskers would feel like
On the back of her neck. She told me later on
That after a while she got to looking out
At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,
Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds
And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
And then she got really angry. To have been brought
All the way down from London, and then be addressed
As a sort of mournful cosmic last resort
Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
Anyway, she watched him pace the room
And finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit,
And then she said one or two unprintable things.
But you mustn't judge her by that. What I mean to say is,
She's really all right. I still see her once in a while
And she always treats me right. We have a drink
And I give her a good time, and perhaps it's a year
Before I see her again, but there she is,
Running to fat, but dependable as they come.
And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d' Amour.
-Anthony Hecht
so i find out today that my buddy t is knocked up and getting married. fer reals. now on the one hand, i'm happy beyond happy for her, because the chap she's got her is a real catch. a little while back i got 15 minutes alone with him, shook hm down, and he checks out. and i think deep down inside all she's ever wanted was her prince - even if only mildly charming - to come along and worship the ground she walks on. you know, to treat her right. and this fella does.
but then i remember that she was the last of my truly booze drinkin', coke snortin', free wheelin', ass smackin' buddies. i mean not only was the girl southern, but she'd clean you out playing poker and could drink a fifth of john daniels without flinching. and she talked about her vagenie like most fellers talk about theirs. you know, the girl had brass - you could really raise hell with her, straight up. so despite being all happy and congratulatory and what not, i kinda feel like i've lost a major battle in the war against growing up. like the alamo of my crazier days has finally fallen to the armies of adulthood. does this make me a selfish, immature bastard? probably. i should just shut up and be happy for her, right? wrong. guerrilla warfare fuckers, starting with the 40 in the fridge.
So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,
And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
All over, etc., etc.'
Well now, I knew this girl. It's true she had read
Sophocles in a fairly good translation
And caught that bitter allusion to the sea,
But all the time he was talking she had in mind
The notion of what his whiskers would feel like
On the back of her neck. She told me later on
That after a while she got to looking out
At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,
Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds
And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
And then she got really angry. To have been brought
All the way down from London, and then be addressed
As a sort of mournful cosmic last resort
Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
Anyway, she watched him pace the room
And finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit,
And then she said one or two unprintable things.
But you mustn't judge her by that. What I mean to say is,
She's really all right. I still see her once in a while
And she always treats me right. We have a drink
And I give her a good time, and perhaps it's a year
Before I see her again, but there she is,
Running to fat, but dependable as they come.
And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d' Amour.
-Anthony Hecht
so i find out today that my buddy t is knocked up and getting married. fer reals. now on the one hand, i'm happy beyond happy for her, because the chap she's got her is a real catch. a little while back i got 15 minutes alone with him, shook hm down, and he checks out. and i think deep down inside all she's ever wanted was her prince - even if only mildly charming - to come along and worship the ground she walks on. you know, to treat her right. and this fella does.
but then i remember that she was the last of my truly booze drinkin', coke snortin', free wheelin', ass smackin' buddies. i mean not only was the girl southern, but she'd clean you out playing poker and could drink a fifth of john daniels without flinching. and she talked about her vagenie like most fellers talk about theirs. you know, the girl had brass - you could really raise hell with her, straight up. so despite being all happy and congratulatory and what not, i kinda feel like i've lost a major battle in the war against growing up. like the alamo of my crazier days has finally fallen to the armies of adulthood. does this make me a selfish, immature bastard? probably. i should just shut up and be happy for her, right? wrong. guerrilla warfare fuckers, starting with the 40 in the fridge.