She lay awake another night of staring at the floor,
Her tears had dried and through red eyes she wished her life meant more 

Than simply being used anew and only worth a damn
When giving up a piece of her – like farmed and slaughtered lamb;

She thought her woollen coat was soft and pretty in the sun,
But those that came saw only how her wool was better spun

To make a hat or scarf or gloves to keep themselves content,
And never spared a single thought to what it might have meant 

To take her wool that seemed so fine not caring how she’d live,
Now knowing that her only worth was what she had to give.

But still not satisfied and even in her naked state,
They saw a lonely little lamb for serving on a plate.

As even when the gifts she had were taken all away,
Her value was determined by her flesh as butchered prey.

And so this lamb which lay alone now stripped of all she had,
Who cried and dried her blood red eyes and wished a life less sad,

Spent yet another night awake still staring at her floor
And hoping that her life could mean not being someone’s whore.