Street Rat

O lady of the street, thy flaunts of desire come
at a steep price.
The cost of passion is to go unloved, the rat
in the eyes of the wealth.
The stench of your lustful ways lingers in the
stained air of London,
and the rich and powerful adhere to your services,
then they say that money cannot buy you happiness.

Even love, the most precious gift of all can be sold
and bought at a price,
and life can be taken free of charge, it is but a vase
above a cravass.
You walk the streets like the rope above the stage,
many will hope you fall, but the end of the journey is
always in your sight.

Thy mistress of the rose, your petals have a
poisonous touch.
Though your skin may be soft and red as blood, with
the alluring aroma of your promises of lust,
I pick you by the throns and shead no tears of pain.
It is I that applauds you when you do not fall to your doom.

So take my hand and I shall declare you my own,
the rat has joined society at last.
For do we not all scurry through our lives,
disgusting and weak by the everdrawing hand of death.
And if the rat can change, then I shall declare my love for it.