The Harlot, triple-hour, at her own face gazing
Annihilating imperfections with cold disdain.
And in all of this, where's the F'ool? he's playing video games
And hoping that The Harlot is swoon by clever phrasing.
If I could one thing, the Harlot, tell—before she were to bed—
I'd tell her Aphrodite was only briefly wed.
And if, give I, the Fool advice—coming from a friend—
It'd be to straighten out and put his whinging to an end.
...
But with bated breath awaiting, he, the seer with clouded mind
Seeks he obtain the scarlet, but loath he is to find:
For loathsome all the same is the world to his eyne
And in truth, the lady hath no gifts divine.
In truth, the Harlot is, and forever will be:
No more to him than an image on a screen.
And yet has she the power to coax from him a scream—
For God's sake, straighten out, man, and wake from this dream!