Libertine At the Ole Pall Mall









Libertine at the Ole Pall Mall

Yes, she was the place where souls of poets

dead and living sung like Libertine the

darkest deepest outcast sensual poems

of ladies fair or not while bosoms bounced

with grace among these wenches godly

given to lecherous men of tavern pall mall.


Tippled drinks as wenches bring the mugs

with froth upon there rims and wiped with

naughty fingers from neat their kegs and

chin within the gin soaked vestments on

their skins.


While stories told around the quaintness of

the round tables neatly placed to keep the

whores at bay from stealing two pence

dropped by drunken poet’s verses fallen

between cracks of trampled parchment

dripping stew and crumbs of moldy bread.


Souls of poets living and gone forever from

this place of tavern Pall Mall on the Harvard

where my heart aches to be among these spirits

with quill in hand to capture all their thoughts

before they pass away forever back into time.


Oh that I might drink and sing in merriment a

chorus from a poet’s heart of shame and sin

once more with these vagabonds and whores

and lift our mugs on high yet watch with

careful eye the ones who would have us

hung and swing for all to witness a poet’s

demise for being sharp of wits tongue and

blending words for Kings and Queens and

common man.


Tavern pall mall where whores and poets sit

together to share their verse and grab at

petticoats periwigs curled to entice the poets

with delight while lust is flirting in the night

and flight to bed they fine each other’s lonely

hearts to rest awhile and dream the dreams of

poet’s rhyme.


Yet let us wait while grown men young and

old sit and hear each other’s rhyme of tales

told from old and plucked from memory in

the basement light of dull lit wax melting to

the floor to beg that treasures would be

found as each word hangs in the stale air

of the Ole Pall Mall.


So let the ale flow as we wipe our lips and

caress each word the Libertine brings forth

and respect that he alone stood up for man

and lived his life of frolic gay whoring

until the change took place and his face

was torn by sickness and disfigurement

whilst death took him from us and

Charles the King wept for this poet who’s

ghost now lingers in sweet accord within

the walls of this tavern Ole Pall Mall.


© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved




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