Street Monarch

She’s the queen of the streets,
with her stockings always torn.
Everyone she ever meets,
sees her shoes are well worn.

With her fake leather coat,
she sits there, and regales.
Her castle has no moat,
it doesn‘t even have rails.

She’ll take you out with a glare,
that would frighten the devil.
You just got to see her stare,
watch the likely lads shrivel.

But there’s her sad sorry past,
about which she’ll rarely talk.
Love affairs that didn’t last,
as men or women chose to walk.

As a person she’s first class,
I can feel it in her smile.
When others choose to pass,
I’ll always stop, chat awhile.

She told me part of her tale,
about her exceptional life.
How she never thought she’d fail,
the day she at last became a wife.

How her husband turned so cruel,
says she feels his punches yet.
That his one and only rule,
was to take what he could get.

The child they lost at birth,
said she even had a name.
A pervasive feeling of little worth,
when playing the blame game.

Then she’s off around town,
leaving decriers in her wake.
For her there’ll never be a crown,
you can’t compensate heartbreak.