Degas’S Whore.

It was no fun
Being a whore,
You knew that
For sure;
And sometimes

You’d ask yourself,
What the hell
You did it for,
There had to be
A better way

To make a living,
To keep the wolves
From the door,
Or rats
Or whatever

It was
That scratched
And clawed.
Not a matter
Of giving

Your favours,
You had to sell
Yourself
Body and soul,
To whatever man

Or woman
Gave you the word,
Nod or wink
With whatever
Scent or stink

Or touch or feel.
Degas gave you
Immortality
With his pastel
And oil paintings

Of you
After your bath,
Combing your hair
Or just laying there,
Wondering

What those eyes
And minds
Of another age
Might make of you,
How they might judge,

What secret thoughts
Some men might hide,
Beneath the artistic view
Of 19thcentury
Prostitute you.