Sophie Eliot Find A Prostitute ❤️

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Then – get this – she softens up, tells me bout her punter who paid in *buttons*. BUTTONS! Antique ones, worth a mint, from some dead duke’s coat. Bloke was off his trolley, but she flogged em for 200 quid! Made me howl – mad as a bag of ferrets, that is. *“I don’t understand what’s happening”* – movie line again, cos I’m proper bamboozled, ain’t I? Life’s a circus!

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Eliot talks about a woman in the third stanza of the poem, and it would appear that the woman is a prostitute. Writing about a prostitute, he presents to us a more sordid side of women. In .

I gotta say, Eliot (us) loves to surprise. Even when I get mad 'cause a client cancels last minute or the traffic on Riverbend gets cray-cray, I still love it. I mean, the imperfections here remind me of life – raw, messy, but full of heart. And honestly, that’s what makes me happy.

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