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.