One urban princess drunk with her boys in the middle of a dim side-street
Near a residential area, all kerosine eyed, sipping cheap vodka from a
Plastic cup, and screaming ‘liberation’.
But how could she yell ‘freedom’ when she’s got her tongue chained to her
Clit-ring, swaying foolishly like a busted metronome.
Her men —although one is reluctant to call them ‘men’ encircled her
As if practicing a demonic ritual.
All hands felt her up, from breasts to buttocks,
To crotch as she laughed, it did not matter anymore,
For she could not even withstand to look at her own reflection
In the half broken mirror that hung in the dirty bathroom of her one
She could not bear to look at herself because all she saw was a
Used up whore, with traces of fingerprints of scum-bags she’s been with
Quite visible all over her body.
She stood there, aching to rip her skin to bloody bits,
Wishing this was some sort of hellish dream,
But sadly, this was no dream,
For life is never what you expect it to be.