They used to call her sister Monica,
Mary; her replica.
She used to sleep in the cathedral,
Filled with religious moral.
She was young, orphaned,
They said by evil spirit she was haunted,
She cried and prayed,
But at night the evil spirit again haunted.
He was black in white clothing,
Move honoured in a saint coat,
He was more of a goat,
After his daughter's thigh.
The pastor son was sexually high,
He was trained to carry on the legacy;
But on her poor little body he didn't have mercy.
The beast created could no longer be tamed, the spirit took over her.
Just like pastor's son with her body tamper,
She turned the church kids body to her alter,
Parents didn't find out but till later,
She confessed her sins.
She made pleas;
But all fell on stones,
What about pastor's son iniquities?
Covered with a large jar.
No one took her in, her new home became a bar
She serviced those who she was supposed to call 'Sir',
She knew she was doomed yet knelt and pray,
When she seem to change, Madam made it a force.
She was initiated into the full course,
She didn't give a pause,
Till it was too late.
It wasn't her immediate intention,
She was innocent but by the devil, was sent into detention.
She dances naked on that long bar, feeling sensation.
In broad daylight, they said 'God forbid'.
But do you mind?
To know she was one indeed,
An holy temple, till she was by her pastor's son defiled.
With a jug, his sins were covered.
So before you judge,
Do you care to know her story?
Before you pursue,
Do you care to receive and mend?
Before you conclude
Do you care to adhere to her sorrow?
So do we show pity to prostitutes?
Do we let them go for the lots of broken homes they created??
What do you think??
© 2019 Arthut.| Powered by Mckodev