I'm cruising, creeping along down the street lamp avenue

I'm searching, watching for the girl with the scuffed up shoes

I see back alley stars needing the cover of night

I see masquerades bleeding under jaundiced light

A pretty marked white face with a south central speak

It's an old, old profession



She’s waving, it really doesn't matter who you are

A warning, a smile will not take you all that far

But for the price she asks you to pay

She will say what you want her to say

She will be who you want her to be

It's an old, old profession



Some call her a whore, a pre-loved girl

Used up by this piece of shit world

Hardened heart, empty of despair

But she's my twenty dollar drive-by love affair

A child of the night, she vanishes with the dawn

Yes, it's an old, old profession


©1998 by Steve Giacomini
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