I'll make my living on street
corners, writing love poems for the untalented.
Selling my soul for some American Dream Pie.
And they will buy.
Perverting my perversion.
Rewriting my vows of forever love
into the fevered scribbles destined to
seduce the naive for sex.
I could do this all night.
Producing millions of mostly meaningless
chicken scratch notebook pages.
Ink running with a few drops of water,
I'll earn my keep and fake my clients into
the arms of whoever they want.
It's a steal.
I'll have a flock of thieves
begging for my cunning tricks.
All of them knowing that they're only loved
because I made them that way.
With a grin I'll toss them scribbles
and charge top dollar.
Prostitution pays the bills.