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About Houston

Her life’s a riddle, like in the movie— “Accept the mystery,” they say. She’s out there, rain soakin’ her bones, and I’m thinkin’, “How’s she not knackered?” Prostitute’s a grind, mate—did ya know some o’ ‘em in history, like in Victorian times, kept coded diaries? Scribbled who they shagged in secret symbols—mental, right? She prob’ly don’t, but I imagine her with one, hidin’ it from the pimps. Makes me laugh, picturin’ her scribblin’ away, dodgin’ the law, “You shall not pass!” to the nosy sods.