Fingers

Fingers straight, fingers bent
only the victim's heaven sent:
in the pocket,
under the shoe,
you'll never miss
what I stole from you.

Fingers cold, fingers sore
your moleskin purse, or the poorhouse door?
Down the alley
next to the pure
your silver's lost
to you for sure.

Fingers cut, fingers bled
wait for the 'peelers Ethel said,
still in the alley,
sliced on the floor,
I listen to Jack
call me a whore.