Pink are her lips,
Dark her clothes.
She sleeps with strangers,
To run her home.

She has nothing else to do;
She is poor.
Worn out of her day’s work;
Her body-parts sore.

Screwed by destiny,
Not by choice.
She’s got an ailing mother;
And a six-months-old baby boy.

She sells love
To some more,
While her baby cries
Next door.

In the day,
They call her ‘whore’.
At night,
They flock at her door.

No one cares,
What goes on her.
Just come to quench their thirst;
The spur of lust!

Preaching principles,
Words of morality;
Lousy double-standards,
Sheer hypocrisy.

Sick imposters,
Filthy boars.
I wonder,
Who’s the whore!

~KMnO4

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