Girl Of The Streets

She was a girl of the streets,
On her own since she was sixteen.
Led a bleak life of countless defeats;
Hope was something unforseen.

She wandered from city to city,
Walking the streets, calling to strangers,
"Hey, Mister! I'll do you for a fifty!"
Unafraid she was of the many dangers.

She went with men who had the money,
Let them abuse her to their delight.
She never smiled or acted sunny,
Just hoped she could survive the night.

She plied her trade from town to town,
Always seeking that one bright tomorrow
Rarely displaying more than a frown,
Living her life in unabashed sorrow.

They found her one cold winter day
Lying in an alley, dead and alone,
Half covered in snow, frozen and gray.
Even a hardened cop could only groan.

The city buried her up on Potter's Hill,
Just a numbered marker, name unknown.
Years later, she's lying there still,
Unclaimed, unwanted, utterly alone.

I visited her grave one spring day,
Left a red rose under that marker.
Shed a tear, but what could I say,
About my older sister, Betsy Parker.