The whore's finger beckons me
Finger on the end of a pustulated arm
The stain of love drips from her hand
Down through the holes in her skin
Her back laying on a curtain of stale sweat
The love of ten customers dumped in a plastic lined bin
can't cut through the smell
But the movement of her finger still arouses me
Pulling me towards her ten times violated pussy
They don't call them hookers for nothing
I'm like a fish on her finger
I go where she points me
What does she like more?
The money of the ten minutes of pleasure I give her
before I come
I bet some men before me haven't lasted so long
