They wear masks that are unrecognizable
every night they battle discrimination.
Pockets with dimes are what they need
a hand with crisp bills and silver coins.
They come at night incognito,
places where the Devil and its demons lurk.
Morning they will come back to places where they live
as battered housewives and solitary moms.
A crime they do where they are slaves,
a deed that is done in a four-walled room.
They are the desperate, the women of darkness
a cursed society and laughing-stock of men.
Yet they live for the others that live
whose lives depend on the dimes they receive.
They cry in silence; their tears are dry
as hounds mercilessly trample their souls,
stick their tongues in a land of youthful innocence,
The land of the Desperate.
