His back he turned on taverns din,

then down the cobbled street he went.

Behold! Though bleary eyes of gin,

against the old street light, she lent.

As his drunken sway drew near,

the princess of this darkened hour,

professional charm switched into gear.

Against this, the sailor had no power.

A blur of painted nails and face,

whispered pleasures. Guiding hand,

led then, to that harlot's place.

His steps so far from native land.

The dawn, a sober light did bring,

upon the naked flesh it fell.

His head with clanging bells did ring.

Then stirred this angel of the hell.

An ancient relic of the trade,

in all her ugliness revealed.

The sailor for her favours paid.

His wounded pride: it never healed.