Dejá Vu To A Kill

She works a hustle as old as sex,
Stroke my ego, then stroke me.
The con goes like a cursed hex,
Now mostly words. No action, see?
Promise of love hidden in hate,
Keep the money flowing on in.
Perhaps she’ll dress for a date,
That is, so long as she sins.
Her desires fulfilled, she holds out,
Maybe another has her other need.
She lies, cajoles, and offers a pout
Turning one to another with greed.
Not just con, but survival skill,
She plays them against the other.
No morals, sheerly her own will
Necessity and lust are the mother.

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