​She does not wait for holy, quiet nights,

Nor does she beg for candles to be lit.

She barters under buzzing neon lights,

And sells her secrets where the shadows sit.

​A cheap perfume of ink and cigarette,

She leaves her lipstick on the cocktail napkin.

She yields to anyone who pays the debt,

With verses stripped and ready to be trapped in.

​She does not care if you are pure or grand,

She’ll share her bed with madness or with greed.

A thousand lovers hold her dirty hand,

And use her body for the words they need.

​Some call her sacred, others call her vile,

A desperate trick to make the flatline peak.

She gives the starving critic a sly smile,

And whispers truths that holy men won't speak.

​You think you own the stanzas she has bled,

But she is gone before the ink is dry.

To find another writer’s unmade bed,

And give them wings, then leave them there to die.

​So toast to her, the hag of late-night art,

Who trades her virtue for a catchy line.

She tears the fabric of a lonely heart,

And turns the gutter water into wine.