A dead body I met, she was someone who everyone did forget,
Whenever she complained, the only thing she did later was regret .
Her eyes had grown tired of being wet, thus decided not to weep,
A day for her was hard to realize, that sun did set, without eye's wept.
Horrified with being happy, that night she couldn't sleep,
Her past was dangerous, was mysterious , exactly like her, every layer deep.
She was helpless, she was hopeless, she was direction-less
She even was lifeless,i saw and turned depress and she in my mind did creep..
There were so many cuts on her body, yet it seemed section- less..
She knew what was right and what was wrong, yet she was action -less .
She had been stuck with some disgrace, was visible on her face,
Her simplicity in a complex world, seemed aimless,
It wasn't painless, but because she didn't want to part of a race,
She wore an anklet, made up of needles and lace,
With the caption "77", as her dead body's grace..
I wanted to console her, but before that she was gone,
**** these winters, I had turned this idiotic hot shower on ..

Giving joy, getting joy, never coy,
Often pretty, always called a toy,
She sells all that there is to deploy.

And there is she who is demure;
A teacher whose job is secure.
Some say that all teachers are pure.

And there is he who is a professor;
He is his father’s successor;
Just like his father’s predecessor.

The first one we call a *****;
She prostitutes her body more and more;
But the other ones we adore.

The professor prostitutes his knowledge.
He also sells his precious time.
And the teacher too makes the same pledge;
Especially while she is in her prime.

We all ******* something every day;
Yet only the first one’s a *******; yay!

Money cant buy Love, and Love cant buy bread either.