The movement of her waist
Swaying of her hips
Is not for your consumption
But for her own personal pleasure
Her own celebration.
Which will lead to her destruction
As the mentality of the mob
vies for a blood jurisdiction
A whore, a philanderer, a Jezebel of the highest degree
A conjurer of base lusts and desires
Causing others to realise what they’d rather hide
A social reject and open spectacle
She will soon be weary of those stone throws
She will soon be weary of the laughter and blurred energy
That surrounds her.
No home. No food. No growth.
Just opiates and products of inebriation
A source of freedom, of comfort, of safety
In a world that celebrates your rejection
In drunkenness she wanders tot he brothels for safety.
Shaped like a relative, a lover, a government social scheme
Her body no longer her own
A focal menagerie.