Merle Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I saw, inside a small café a pretty girl,
she served her patrons with efficiency and smiles,
The bouncer told me later that her name was Sally-Merle
and that she suffered since the Fall from bleeding piles.

So I, with logic, urged a visit to the quack,
to be checked out, perhaps an operation soon,
he took me by the ear and said, now listen mac
no quack ain't have a look see at her pretty moon

so keep it civil, fellow, wipe the friggin' lust
she's mine now and the owner calls the bloody shots,
if you as much as take a glance on her there bust
I will assume you have the illness called the hots.

Merle died that year, they buried her in New Orleans,
that's where her home had been, she'd left in ninety-eight,
I still can picture her, white blouse and Wrangler's Jeans
I was to weak for Mister Bounce and way too late.