The Last Time - Poem by Orlando Belo
She left her home to stand alone,
on a warm night in July.
Dressed to arouse in a see through blouse
and a mini-skirt high on her thigh.
She adjusted her bra’ whilst looking for car,
then stood with her hands on her hips.
Her pimp and his man arrived in a stretched out van,
a conversion for perversion and sex.
On the back seat of her ride she sat, legs open wide,
a position of comfort and ease.
With her parts on view, a tease that she knew,
she complained in vain to her pimp on her knees.
He wasn’t thinking straight by giving her so little cake,
and she deserved a much bigger slice.
But a sad fact of life was the pimp’s use of a knife,
and his advice, and ways were not nice.
With the blade under her bottom lip, looking likely to slip.
He asked her to repeat her selfish complaint.
Feeling the point of the blade, she said an error had been made,
and she had no right of complaint for the price of the rate.
He told her to keep her mouth shut or else she would get it cut,
and no one ever questions his prices.
With disagreements now at an end, she promised not to again offend,
So his blade was put away until another day or crisis.
With a sigh of regret she lit and puffed on a fresh cigarette,
which soaked up the blood from her lip.
The van pulled back in, to her long sidewalk of sin,
a performing stage, for a wage, and a trick.
A disappointed face was about to resume her place,
as she was pushed out of the door.
She had made up her mind that this was to be the last time,
she’d work as a whore, seeking to score.
So this was the final show, of get in and let’s go,
and being twenty-five years old for too long.
Of twisted, violent men, who came time and again,
pretending they were intending no wrong.
A well practiced scene, for the trucker’s main beam,
or for anyone who could pay their way.
Alas, she did her level best, but with no interest,
her last day brought with it no pay.
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