The Tourist's Progress

'...For certeyn, olde dotard, by youre leve,
Ye shul have queynte right ynogh at eve.'
Chaucer: The Wife of Bath's Tale

On Gropecunte Street, the blowers swallow hard,
while watchmen walk the street in search of quaint
men who'd warm the cockles of their hearts.

Painted ladies pinned down in the yard
try every trick of fudge, or dodge or feint;
they know this is the dark side of their arts.

While in the York Hotel, a heeled De Sade
is pricing up the cost of Slav restraint
-he likes to taste the jam on cut-rate tarts.

And he, rayaal, he loves to do it hard;
his face bespeaks maskhara's darker paint,
for he illumines bruises on bawds' parts.

But she who works without an ID card,
pale mistress of the crescent moon, saint
who steals between the market's applecarts,

finds reward below the dunes; noyade
released: a final heave and grunt:
sand scours away the foreign taint of cunt.

Footnotes:
Rayaal: Gulf Arabic for man
Maskhara: Literally 'mask', here meaning foolishness.