Orgasms in the Rue Ste-Catherine

The din corrupted our senses
as our ascension of two flights
(creaky-moldy-rotting planks)
was assayed.
"Mon dieu! Mon dieu!" the French girl
claimed she heard filtered from the upper level;
though I, rough beside her,
swore "Una mas una mas" was shrieked beyond the door.
"Nein," the Bonn-bred ancient piped
(our leadership he presumed),
"Iss not a wesstern tonggue making ziss noisses."

"The howling and gurgling both needs must
surely portend danger for the keeper of this voice - a woman,"
the English lieutenant offered,
"We must advance, enter her quarters to thwart
her demise."

All agreed, and now upon the entrance,
we moved to push across the threshold - yet!
the latch, bolted firm from within, prevented our rescue.

"Una mas una mas," I'm certain pierced my ears again,
as the German and the Bornean scout heaved their
full weight at the door.

The gentlemen's third attempt, pummelling soundly,
snap-cleaved the great door from its hinges.

Rushed in did we all, several astride,
but were overwhelmed at once, once more, by
further screams - now from two distinct mouths,
"Que? Que?"
"Mon dieu!"
"Que lastima!"
"Sacre bleu!"

Garments strewn hither on sofa,
thither on floor; a cap in the wash stand,
a brassiere half out-window; socks and shoes I swear
sat atop lamp shades.

"What baboon could have made a mess like this?" asked the lieutenant.

"My God, I'm so sorry," I stuttered to the bed-mates, who
were now flushed red, and sure more ired.

"Must you defeat us in our own house?" the slowly limping fellow announced.
"De nier ce la point culminant…" the damsel partner pout-piped.