On the east end, there's a chamber
where the weak end barely
a cut beyond Ms. Short;
can you blame her?

Vigilant as hawks, there's a scent
that the crowd gawks over
on their way to pay for ******;
here the filthiest repent.

On the pavement, there's a clue
as to another payment made
by loyal patron;
we're left to wonder, who?

In Whitechapel, there's a tale
of crimson gravel split
by thick-skinned knees;
their owner has since gone stale.