From the Womb to the Tomb

Sweet, little baby born at last
She's tired, she's crying and she's cold
The suffering and anticipation has now passed
Wrapped in a blanket, ready to hold
Her skin is soft and smells like baby
She laughs, plays, and moves all night
Could she become a handful? Maybe.

Years have passed and Alice is twenty
She works hard as an exotic dancer
Those late, dangerous nights earn her the money
Heavily into men and drugs
And no easy way to escape
This dangerous life leads to getting mugged
And possibly death and rape

Alice is now old, eighty to be exact
No morals, no hopes, no goals
Only the remains of heroin and crack
She sits up in her bed
Regrets the life she led
But now it's way too late
For she is dead

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