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Jeff Watkins
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Friday, March 04, 2005

The Oldest Profession I hear

I am really nothing more
Than a simple-minded whore
I go about life everyday
In the same manner
The very say way
Very cliche
As with the things I say
No more stout and realized
Nothing at all
Just the lies
I make money to live
I make it to give away
Paid in full
These are the games I play
Working when I want
Stealing when I cannot
I show effort for a little
I ask for a lot
If you see me on your block
You probably won't stop
To shoot the breeze
Or to notice there are no leaves
On these autumn trees
Run back to the place where you take refuge
Run very fast
When you have finally gotten there
You will sigh, 'at last'
It's not good to talk to a lady
Who sells her body for money
Nor is it wise
To talk to a guy
Who spends half his life
Telling those he loves
Little white stories
That have so much glory
Fictitious fabrications
Details that make this life
So glorious to those who only
Read the tabloids
And try to fill the void
That's gaping so wide
By convincing themselves
That encounters like these
Don't resemble their own
Lives they try to leave

posted by Jeff Watkins at 12:03 AM

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