Story Of A Dead Prostitute

sacred books have lost their meanings,
almanacs mistake the right 4 wrong.
life treads a path less trodden,
favourite lines dont make up the song.

the river flows by the slums of misery,
one such slum where u were born,
one such drop of deep blue blood,
flowing thru the lonely veins of ur body.
scorned.& tortured evry nite,
it thus loses the pain of sorrow.
the sorrow of pain-u're used 2 it.
shreiks of ur soul,
as the almanac hides in dust
of time,sorrow,shame n anger....
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the clock is still ticking along,
the shadows on the wall sing enchanting songs.
the river still flows by miserable slums
the life,still hazy wid cigarette smoke.
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