the harlots rosary

She fastens an emblem of catholic beliefs

As a pendant that hangs around her neck

And when she undresses, even her briefs

She is never compelled to give it down

By her promiscuous bed lays a bulky bible

That is stagnated upon the souvenir of infidelity

And if the story of rehab is a fable

Then her assurance of paradise is very low

The mandible is pierced, then the fly sucking

Enjoys the euphoria of the warm nectar

And the pleasures of its taste are unfathomable to discerning

That its sensation could be very plangent 

When the feeling of thirst has been neutralized

The vessel of impurity, and sacrificial to the brunt

Is this damsel, but she hopes to be canonized

Because she has fused with the ones who have been

2

You cannot blame a trader that needs compensation

If she has no customers nor like minds

Like the priest that commences the ritual of the communion

Has come to pay homage to her dusty foot-mat

The disciplinary fathers that oat against polygamy

Renounce those pledges upon her silky wool

And her floors have no imprints of forgery

It has the exact sizes of scandalous sandals

If you give her the use of pen and paper

To enlist the names of one and all

It shall reveal to us men unknown as sinners

Till the dusk reveals the darker aspirations of men

But when her knees are down, and hands clasped

She exposes to God the guilt of her conscience

And when the question of morality is asked

She observes silence, reflecting on her life’s account

3

It can be hardest when you have no home

And there’s no provision from your immediate world

Then your beauty is your inborn phenomenon

To yield materialism from even scrooge’s pocket

The most prudent of men are here

To dispose huge sums before your door

And when they touch you, you adhere

Because money is Far relevant than beauty

And when a man is longing for lust

You are his tool to conservative satisfaction

But if you read the holy books, I trust

That its words are clear to those that care

I know that life is bitterer than vinegar

I know that poverty is a state of pity

But when you are born immersed in a gutter

You are not more sweet smelling ever to be perceived

4

It should take more than paper to cause such

That the earth has no concern over a beauty

And it has twinkled the guile of an empress

Into the general property of the public

Now she is a spinster that thrives to survive

On the urge that is inbuilt in your conscience

And detesting the blood is quite a suicide

It only upsurges its tempo in optimism

Then don’t blame the whore, the human hawker

For her sights are turned now into a nocturnal nemesis

She sleeps through the noon, and needs no light

But is a crawler of the night in darkness

In the eyes of God all men are nude

And bare-chested of the hearts true nakedness

So that no covering ever succeeds to hide

The scab that the linen covers on the skin

5

There are hidden harlots in the abbess

Whose frock seem as pure as the residence

And the rose seems unchaste of transgression

Because the apparel seems to shade the shame

They also clutch the rosary to a prayer

Seeming that the pure voice ascends to heaven

But if you are fully crowned a deceiver

The title less surpasses Gods omniscient eyes

But the one who knows where she belongs

Yet accepts the relevance of the creator

Shall speak a prayer and a psalm of songs

That shall sweeten the ears of the creator

Then no tongue is fit for condemnation

Because if we judge sin by mere view

Millions shall escape its due execution

Because they are covered by the mask of deceit

6

Poverty and prostitution are a simultaneous predicament

Than many uneven hands find themselves straggling

And they become the device of excitement

Only to become unhappy and exploited materials

Children, a woman’s guard is an emerald entity

That she protects with the ferociousness of a pard

But if you give it very cheap, for poverty

Does that mean that it is your least resort?

Since the rosary still clings steadfast to your arm

And you kneel every morning to confess your atrocities

I know that you live holier than a nun

Whose covering is a smock that portrays innocence

I know that penury is the deepest well to be delved

For it swallows its culprit irrespective of its gender

But a woman is the weakest creation ever crafted

And if there were no women, there would be no fears