I have long known this roadside prostitute
In whom's life, night by night, down were the chips
Of what would you think her thoughts constitute?
Of yanked legs from whence falls her nightly tips?
Nay, the lowness of her pride's altitude
Tasted in the lingering smack on her lips
That, and the jabs of her guilt's magnitude
Striking eternal marks between her hips
We judge and say she has an attitude
But her hands have loosened a thousand zips
All of strange men, tis her life's factitude
From this cup of reproach she daily sips
Ignored by Reverends yelling Beatitudes
She sinks her head, just a common prostitute.
Topic(s) of this poem: guilt, life, lifestyle
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