At the Comte de Guise's chateau, his wife turned forty,
yet again, ape masks are all the rage, frocks hand-
stitched in Paris, linen collars which pinch the throat.
On iron gates the Comte's coat-of-arms bears the rumour:
Il faut circuler. I've just drained a cup of Methuselah,
spot Dominique, circulating, ever with a different party,
and a little further off. The chef cuts a crenellated
pie from which doves scatter. How swish! a jewelled
gorilla sighs through yellow teeth. There are benches
of fried oysters, treacle tart, porridge spooned up
by a proud garçon who'll answer only Oui or Non.
Now Dominique, glowing, embraces an
Lovers do it.
People abuse it.
Porn improves it.
Teens try it.
Rapists force it.
Hookers sell it.
Brothels run it.
The horny want it.
And human survival relies on it.
Flesh is the new style
so bare some skin honey
wear it out
like all the trends
that cost so much money
this ones almost free
the only cost being
the rest of your dignity
so be a whore
forget your humility
A whore to fashion
sex sells
and you sold yourself
Flesh is the new style
so bare some skin
wear it out honey
like all the the other trendy sins
that cost so much money
remember this ones almost free
the only cost being
whatever is left of your dignity
sex sells
Ah honey show a little more
you sold yourself
your such a trendy whore