Saturday, 31 March 2012

The Devils Advocate

A woman of convenience, by convenience, that’s her trade.
Face of evil, hair of scarecrow straw, invented, not made.
Parades her wanton wares as every Jezebel might
The sun her enemy, she plies her trade by night.
Plastic face, plastic arse like a blown up doll
Nightmare on any street, no scruples at all.
Satan’s novitiate, red and black walls of her cell
Reminder of home and Daddy watching from Hell.
Plies her tainted trade, a painted inch at a time
To the highest bidder, any soul,sole investor in slime.
Spindly legs, man made bust, lust of desperate and low
Use and abuse, jackdaw, magpie and crow.
Private enterprise in pollution, that’s her game
Black, white, rich or poor, payment delivered the same.
And the children don’t matter, collect them up in a ball
The taxpayer pays and feeds and clothes them all.
And blackmail’s a bonus, a look of “I don’t forget”
Revisit that Pandora’s Box of fear and regret.
A virgin at nine, a harlot at ten, at twelve a nakker complete
The world was her orchard and Adam a fool at her feet.
And she went on her mission of conquest and pain
Each man a target resisted her magnet in vain.
She fooled them and ruled them and promised the world to each
But they all were shipwrecked on petulant promise’s beach.
And John he was there and Thomas was too
and every man in the Shire,
And many compared their notes of this harlot for hire.
And each one would claim it was an adventure in vain,
Yet each one would say in his turn “I’d do it again”.
She’ll rise with the dusk and sally, sure of her mark.
The dogs in the street know she’s one of them, won’t even bark.
Jezebel’s sister in hand-me-down gowns of the trade,
Eyes like a primitive lizard, tongue like a butcher’s blade.
Her babbies like liquorice allsorts; take what you get,
With a small bit of luck Daddy might hear of you yet.
With thirty approaching she switches the mirror in vain,
And orders the wrinkles to go into hiding again.
Change hair and change face, try changing disgrace
and you’ll get what we think you’d get in our place:
A ticket back home to hell and to Pops and a low stool by the hob,
With special attendants, the morons you’ve serviced; each one devoid of a knob.

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