A weather-beaten cottage, with the yard fence broken down,

Stood alone on a barren hillside, just outside of town.

The roof was heavy laden, with a cold December snow;

The temperature was plunging to zero or below.

The porch posts were badly leaning; boards were broken in the floor.

A worn and faded blanket had replaced the cottage door.

Rough boards across the windows had replaced the broken glass,

The yard, once alive with children, contained dead weeds and grass.

Wrapped in dingy blankets, an old lady sat alone;

She thought about her lovers, and all the men she’d known.

Too bored to fulfill motherhood, and too wild to be a wife;

The fast lane was her preference; it became her way of life.

Her past came back to haunt her, her mistake was crystal clear,

And the family she'd rejected, now became extremely dear.

The bright lights were still flashing where they danced and liquors flow,

But her pocketbook was empty, and her feet were much too slow.

Smoke filled clubs and ballrooms had become part of her past,

She emptied her last bottle and cursed the empty glass.

The wind that whistled through the cracks, chilled her to the bone;

No heat came from the furnace vent, the food and drinks were gone.

She drew the blanket tighter, and wished for a bite to eat,

Then cursed the life of a harlot, and drifted off to sleep.

The room grew cold and colder until the night had passed;

Her breath was slow and labored, and echoed with a rasp.

Morning came; the sun shined clear; its warming rays too late

To warm the bones of the hooker who reaped a harlot's fate.