Being valued was not your bag, 

Having someone who saw you as human not your thing, 

Instead you desire old grody hands, 

With dirty money and a proffered ring. 

With those grody old hands upon you, 

You tell yourself it’s how it should be, 

But it’s only self-debasement, turning screw,

And you should have listened me, 

For I only sought to save you, 

From repeated mistakes pushed by your crowd, 

And to love you without condition, so true, 

But they were far too loud. 

And now you play yourself again, 

Waste the remainder of your grains of sand, 

On shallow motives, deviant men, 

Who grab at you with grody hands.