Mary got lucky when she got too old to dance, trading her
Piccini for a barmaid’s apron and only had to turn a trick for special customers
if one of the dancers called in sick, she crying in my beer about how much less
she earned, tips going to the chicks with think hips.
She was a woman who proposed to become my girlfriend because
like me, she loved the New York Yankees and still mourned the death of catcher
Thurmon Munson, who she said she might have fucked any time if he’s ever asked,
the closest she ever got was after a game at the stadium where he autographed a
baseball for her, when she really wanted a kiss.
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