Ode to a Whore

She said she was a writer,
But she was just a whore,
And I was much too blinded
By her exterior.

And while I tried to love her,
I found many more,
Who came in droves knocking
Upon her bedroom door.

She merrily received them
And told them pretty lies,
While painting a picture
Of heaven in their eyes.

And when I came to know
The truth about her,
I came to the conclusion
That she was but a whore.

And while she may be popular
With some young guys next door—
One day she’ll be alone
And needed no more.

And I would hate to hear
About her sad demise—
But that’s the price she’s paying
For living in her lies.

And if I were to see her,
I’d wish her best of luck
And tell her that I’m sorry
That I was just a f***.


April 13, 2004 
--Alexander Shaumyan