Along the high-street in Cologne back and forth she walked at night a slick little piece for all to own then tired of sidewalks she'd stay on in shady barrooms drinking late She went down and out, she gave her all for a redheaded pimp with a bloodshot eye a jew he was with a garlic smell who'd come from Formosa once and hauled her out of some whorehouse in Shanghai People I know of every sort to match their fates they lack the force like dead leaves they're irresolute their eyes are fires just half put out their hearts sway open like their doors |