Don’t say you don’t need a man
when you won’t turn down a drink
from a stranger
who reeks like the Vatican.

You in a slit skirt is Chicago on fire
with no one to blame for the destruction
but a cow
you call your mother.

Kind things I say about you
are severance for your vanity
as you retire from girlhood
and enter the twilight of your bangs.

I won’t keep you young
anymore than you’ll keep me honest
but we’ll keep
like spoilt milk in the tits of heaven.

While it’s been good knowing you,
you’re a woman, now
and we’ve got nothing to talk about
until a rich man comes calling.