Lady Rina de Laborde
I decamped Le Sphinx when curfew broke,
before sun's rays had dawned,
ensoddened by the German blokes
that haunted la maison.
Midst fetid fog of poverty,
I lugged my bones toward home
to pen tales of debauchery
with goss relayed in code.
'Cause high-born whores knew how to read,
but few could also write,
the SOE enlisted me
to help France in her plight.
Young soldiers bragged of strategies
when plied with alcohol;
spilled secrets faster than their seed
as I held them in thrall.
Their leaders then paid half a franc
per sex-enshrouded word,
which netted thrice my nightly bank
for stories thus conferred.
The Nazi presses pumped my vice
throughout the Paris streets,
out to the demarcation line
with unsuspecting speed.
For three long years I undermined
their tyrranous regime;
amassing wealth, I walked the line,
avenging the marquis.