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
