"The Whores of Paris", as a lyric, seems more sympathetic than salacious (though I'm not going to listen to it either):
Gigi liked the book on Jackie O
Though I knew she had some trouble with the words
It never showedShe'd never drop her guard
Under pressure she preferred like all her girls
Who worked the bars
To be a lady in the finest sense
Not your traditional elegance
Of Paris Match and chic expense
But the tough and tardy waiting game
With fat commuters full of cheap champagne
Belching tourists feel no pain
When Gigi takes their wallets
Spends their bodies, keeps the change
For sentiment don't touch the Whores of Paris
Just the years and lines of age
That buries them in unmarked graves
Old and spent and never saved
By epitaphs and red bouquets
When winter wakes the devil takes
The Whores of Paris home to Hades
They use their caution like a whip
We sensed it as they filed their nails, crimson
As the paint upon their lips
Tough enough to rust in jail
Farmers' daughters plucked like corn
From the Camargue to Marseilles
Ideals of the ideal life
Expectant mothers discarded wives
With re-sewn wrists and tear stained eyes
They soon find the shoe fits easy
The francs flow in and the tricks say, 'Please me'
Another lovely thigh says, 'Squeeze me'
Mon cherie, my bed's so busy
Take a Pernod, life's so sleazy
It's not coffee in the air
Just the smell of foreign fingers greasing palms
On the Seine it's Sunday morning
To her, it's always evening
Shifting gear to put some German in her arms
Washed in sterile porcelain
She fakes it for the good of his morale
He's tired and worn but she moves on
To rope another stud from her corral
Christmas in the poor house
Unbeknownst to others, Madelaina takes her life
She tipped the scales at forty five
Never saw a decent day
Never made it to the upper echelons of night
In decadence I once reclined
Looked them over once or twice but never really
Crossed my mind, preferring to remain their friend
I never shared the pleasures of the mystery that lay beneath
Anyone of them
They just seemed starved of conversation
Respected us for being patient
Demanded news of other nations far away
And I'm still glad I gained their faith
For every girl there bore more taste
Than the flotsam strung on the Bel Air wastes
They poised themselves with perfect grace
Their hearts were chipped but not misplaced
There's more empathy than in "Sweet Painted Lady".
― Halfway there but for you, Thursday, 11 January 2024 15:43 (two years ago)