The Harlot

No one you may ask today remembers her exact and true name As for her beauty, some may question, Is she an angel or a goddess Her flowing gowns were of the finest satin, like those worn by a countess Many of you may inquire and scorn her with your righteous blame For her work required a moral destitute of character, a disregard of shame A sacrifice of her heart, was one of the heaviest cost of her caress Her bruised and battered body and her hair a tattered mess Today, however of her only the numerous blissful smiles of men remain For she was a master of whispers, a spell spinster, a conjurer of lustful lies She offered them her body, her affection, her tenderness, for a modest fee How many a night her suitors enjoyed her flesh, as echoed in their cries She smiled, she swayed, and she sashayed, like a sensual seductive sea Sadly, no doubt, the love she certainly wished for, she never would realize? If only they knew, to feed her child, for what greater love a mother could there be