The Hanged Man

Man in Stil de grain coat,
With the goldenrod socks
Turns the corner, roundabout.
Past the avenue with the
White-faced Siren.

She whistled below the
Crescent Moon, a silken tune
Of Gibraltar Campions.
And it lingered softly,
As she said adieu.

So following swiftly,
Down the Rue Poutrel.
The Winged Maiden turns
Her head, sultry glance heading
into the Seine Riviere.