They spoke of her fondly, though in jest
For walking the street she was the best
In younger days with flaxen hair
She escorted fellows everywhere
The years went by she lost her looks
He clients came from local pubs
She often gave them what they needed
And sometimes a few diseases
For her teeth had gone her virtue lost
The drugs had made her pay the cost
A *** workers life is one of knocks
Violence pain and abused till death
The only peace she will get
So when you joke about her life
Suggest a drain plug to dry her out
You talk of someone's little girl
Who was failed by all in this world
No love to hold her close at night
No child to squeeze her tight
No family to mourn her death
No one even knows her name
As she's buried in paupers grave.