Oh, these women
In their heels and mini-skirts
With their painted youth dripping from their faces;
Oh, these fruits of the city,
These sumptuous, soft, plump, self-destroying
Women that need devouring -
God, can't you help them?
You made them this way,
Hung them in your garden
From Eve's forbidden tree,
Gave them sweet juice and lust to be consumed;
Only to plant the seeds of knowledge
In the dumb beast who eats them.
Oh these damning fruits of the city,
Who bring forth generations of saccharine poison
By nature of their trade,
Oh, these women
In their heels and skirts,
They were born to be condemned.