She’s worth maybe a total of thirty pounds, a thirty pound girl leaning on a Friday night lamppost, thinking: move politely fast past high loser… She’s the girl of the hour and you’re a mere boy, should be a man, should do cocaine, should call the police and yell prostitute… but then I’m sure maybe some of them are nice people if you can see past that cliché body, and then again maybe the girl’s crazy. I approach politely and she turns out to be a crackhead, standing years there on that street corner, pleading with old men for cigarettes, what if I had a cigarette to give to her if she asked… And maybe I will this time. Maybe lucky. She might be lucky… Something must sometime be good so I might this time… maybe, maybe this time may be lucky. See her never again, loser later, home alone again, walking politely fast past… she’ll find others probably, get down for thirty blue pounds… too many morals to think about walking back, too shy to jump, always a later loser, never a man… please come back and proposition me she’s thinking, shut the fuck up and pay me and fuck me.