Into the staring street
She goes on her nightly round,
With weary and tireless feet
Over the wretched ground.
A thing that man never spurns,
A thing that all men despise;
Into her soul there burns
The street with its pitiless eyes.
She needs no charm or wile,
She carries no beauty or power,
But a tawdry and casual smile
For a tawdry and casual hour.
The street with its pitiless eyes
Follows wherever she lurks,
But she is hardened and wise—
She rattles her bracelets and smirks...
She goes with her sordid array,
Luring, without a lure;
She is man's hunger and prey—
His lust and its hideous cure.
All that she knows are the lies,
The evil, the squalor, the scars;
The street with its pitiless eyes,
The night with its pitiless stars.