Foolish harlots

The signs of a fool are many.
Some are privileged to witness the blunders of half naked maids,
with deliberate slippery dresses.

The look of perpetual scorn is etched proudly on their face,
wanting to think of it as a shield,
to guard the harlot's grace.

Fools! Fools!
Little do they realize that scorn himself shames away,
when they are called for duty on the ugly maiden's ashen faces.

Bedsheets and slippers, are their tools,
as intellect and thought,
cleverly wash hands off them hearing the slutty sirens for call of duty.

Perfumes and anklets bathe them.
They hoping for some handsome men to stop and swoon them.
The similarity between tissues and whores is clear, sadly for them,
blatant to even men of no-resistance.

Fools! Fools!
Who are you trying to impress?
With the stench of intoxicating toxins that play house with your sexed up body.

Ashen maidens in your stimulated reverie,
you make merry with random men, maybe, women,
making even Syphilis take to its heels, run for cover, ashamed, yet, amused.

The red lipped maids,
with their bosoms out on everymans face,
think sexuality is their trump card in every game.

Here's hoping that these witches and whores,
take to common sense and plead summon intelligence
to finally hit their doors, or alas,
they are bound to end up a pimp's troupe.