Let me sing you a ballad,
A tale painful and haggard.
She was but, a woman of the night,
Used, paid and slept off daylight.
They came, they paid and were pleased,
But she was never heard nor eased.
They called her names,
But at night, had their claims.
When the sun goes down,
She strolls the town,
Looking for work and pay,
As she wanders down the alley.
Dark unlit corners and rotting garbage,
Never seem to faze her advantage.
Her body sheltered desire,
Her moans had them on fire,
She was for them but a whore,
And what she did was a chore.
No one knew the pain she held,
Or what beneath that skin dwelled.
She was but a creature of sin,
For them she was a chagrin.
They never knew the ones she fed,
They never knew the tears she shed,
They never knew the love she lost,
They never knew the pain she host.
She was but accused of her choices,
Detest ringed in their voices,
For they knew not the circumstance,
Nor did anyone spare a glance.
She never complained,
No one she blamed,
Neither she cried at her fate,
But stayed valiant till the date.
Strong, unapologetic and unashamed,
She did her chore unabashed.
For she knew she would be forgiven,
In the high heavens, a place she will be given.
For her final customer will be Death,
He shall not judge on her last breath,
High angels will take her home,
Where the valiant truly belong.
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