Old Tarts Poem by Leo Yankevich

They come at eight o'clock
and never are they late
for the church bell to toll
over the iron gate.

Above their heads a school
of ravens haunts the skies.
A priest unbolts the lock;
dew gathers in their eyes.

Arthritic, gnarled, and bent,
their brittle aching bones
creak like old bordellos
a pimping cocksman owns.

They pray for their bedfellows
and cling to rosaries.
Piously they keep Lent
and wait for their release.