This old whore with windmill legs, my heart

This old whore with windmill legs, my heart,
Because it cannot love takes a speaking part
Detailing the racy vices that brought it
Sopping here, dripping in a two-piece, tits

Every which where, desperate to be stared at,
Desperate to stare.  Too frail and fat
To do much more than moon about the bar,
My heart gets ripped on sips of distilled tears.

“Do you know that outfit's last year's haute monde?
The ice inside your eyes is not overtly fond
Of mewling kittens or bombshell blondes—

Why not just out with it?  Tell them there,
Arrayed along a rainbow from violet to sere:
No eye eyes your zero from the empty mirror.”