The Molls

Dylan Thomas

1914 to 1953

Poem Image

I found them lying on the floor,
Male shapes, girl-lipped, but clad like boys
Night after night their hands implore
Emetic Percies for their joys.

They retch into my secret night
With stale and terrifying camp
And offer as the last delight
A crude, unhappy, anal cramp.

Gently they sigh to my behind
Wilde words, all buttered, badly bred,
And when I dream of them I find
Peacockstain’s poems on my bed.