I walk alone on freezing cold gutters,
with my jacket that has no buttons,
and shoes with the holes at the soles of my feet,
and the women look at me and gag,
they cry, they faint, they run away, they sigh,
they don't spare a passing glance,
they are the horrid creatures that have no soul.
Then there are the whores.
Yes, the whores stay with me,
they look at me and see a real man,
they see a real poet,
they see a real artist,
who really and truely starves for his art,
and they all admire me and what I stand for.
When I come around,
they tag along,
they sigh in relief when they see me
and they huddle around me
and they admire me
and I admire all of them.
They are my women
who ask nothing from me,
not one thing, yet they stay by my side.
They don't look at beauty, nor how big my bank account is,
they come as they are and look at me for what I really am.
They admire me, they love me,
they can't get enough of me,
and I can't get enough of them.
They all treat me right,
and I admire them for going out of their way for me.
Love is real, when real people appriciate real people.
Love is there when they sit there and listen to me
read my poems and they laugh and smile at me
and my creative genius.
The whores are my women,
and I love them for that, and I smile,
my heart laughs and they laugh with me,
because their my women
and I love them for that.