Crimson was her color, silk her cape,
Cream was her texture, glass her shape,
Sparkling were the eyes, smooth furs she did drape,
Injured was her soul, but all she did was escape.
Heels were her battle, blisters her foe,
Fabrics were the needles, a garb did she sow,
Glitter was her clutch, there she was a hoe,
Hid were all her bruises, for she had a status to quo.
Why was she a hoe? Why a prostitute?
Why the glares? Wasn’t she a damsel in destitute?
Are they cruel? Are they an institution of malamute?
Calling women, a name is their greatest destitute.
Standing at her funeral, reading her an ode,
Teary were the hearts, they said “she was a wench bode”,
Why let her decay then, why let her erode?
“In ecstasy, she went”, said I, for this, was never her abode.
Clips and Pages 