a race


The wrong side of the tracks
Is the area which lacks
An avoidance of crime
And crosses an invisible line.
Sometimes the glamor and the clamor
Of the institution of prostitution
Served as the incubation
Of intense perturbation
Among the people who served
But not among those who deserved
To suffer the most grievously
Instead focusing on those previously
Judged not above prosecution.

The elite of the institution
Being rich Caucasian
And not Negro or Asian
White trash or Mexican.
Instead they are rich Texicans
Who delve into the dark side
Then it’s just a short limo ride
Back to their ivory castles
Where they are free of hassles
By the local authorities
Who dealt with the minorities
As vermin underfoot
Perfect for the boot
To take another bite
And kick them out of sight
Back to where they belong.
They must try to get along.

There is right and there is proper
And it just might take a copper
To explain it with a baton
To some unwise bad one
That he or she must quietly
Hide from decent society
And, never be a hooker
Even if she’s a looker
If she gets caught blatant.
Like gays, she should be latent
And know who to grease
Among the local police
But never go where not wanted
Because the graveyards are haunted
By the souls of those who failed
And were too unlucky to be jailed.

Brent Kincaid


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