Whore.

The dusk is to the Dawn 

As the crowns to the peasants,

There lived a full girl on the top of Mount Pleasant.

So refined and drooled,

Her waist was all full,

She sat on her stool

Awaiting a tool

And from the tool

She would grasp the meaning,

And the voices in her head would not be demeaning

Before the rooster crowed

And the morning cow huffed,

The girl took a deep breath and out came a puff

And the puff blew her voice to the store

And the voice was heard from the first floor

And the sound echoed back from the door

"Woe is me, the holiest of whores."