Artsy Whore

Artsy Whore, everybody else is gone.
So get in my car (Nobody ever said I had principles).
Artsy Whore, I know my flat isn't hip enough for you.
I don't have enough full-bodied tomes or obscure cutouts of
Sartre and Welles. Don't even bother asking
where my meditation pole is,
I don't have one...

Please, Artsy Whore,
be open to new things (I'll pay extra), the
unhipness of my room is, some would say, hip.
Just take off your glasses so you won't have to see it.
What? The'yre just frames? Fuck. Fine,
I'll just turn down the lights. No,
Artsy Whore, these bulbs aren't vintage.
Vintage bulbs are dead; they don't work. Shut up.

Arsty Whore, please
stop quoting Camus, you're
ruining the mood, and it's quite rude
to talk with your mouth full.

Can I pay you in records? What about clove cigarettes?

You know what, Artsy Whore? You're pretty chill for a whore.
I'm sure Hitler could be chill sometimes too;
alone in his rumpus room...