Home.
Added 2022-02-15 14:28:45 +0000 UTC
Around the corner from the rain gutter,
where good girls never wandered at night,
the men would pass by with a mutter,
at its unseemly and dilapidated sight.
Big letters in orange above the shutter,
and a cock-eyed man not quite right,
that's where we made our bread and butter,
till dawn when we disappeared into the light.
They came, they came, each night they came,
and with their own money we bought their shame,
like sly little goblin men with enchanted fruit,
we showed them where layeth the pleasure root.
They paid us for love in coins of green and gold,
but they said we lost more with our morals sold,
even as they feasted on our rosy skin,
they thought they were above our kin.
We kissed their gnarly feet with care,
and stroked their broken flesh with more,
their secrets from them we would tear,
and sanity our potions could restore.
Hidden away in darkness and sin,
like shimmering witches in candlelight,
to our forbidden lair we brought them in,
with apples they were all too eager to bite.
We sold what our mothers taught us to grow,
all our wares we would line up to show,
our bodies, the lands for which they would stay
but their souls, our toys, a more brazen display.
Our existence they would sorely reject by day,
because in turning to object we had a say,
but in blackness they drank till their fill,
and scoffed when we sent a long, long bill.
That's where we lived, it was our home,
where the leaking walls glistened with power,
and the moonlight through the window shone,
the hearts of wilful men we would devour.
Across the corner from the rain gutter,
where good girls never wandered at night,
We would open up the rusty shutter,
and men would shiver at our sight.
