New York City, Saturday night,

New York City, Saturday night,
In a deserted alley, barren of light,
He knows she’s there, He hears her calling,
Going slow, He keeps from falling,
A quiet meeting, just the two alone,
Only her darken shadowy figure is shown,
He goes near to the one who is dear,
Except for the darkness, he shows no fear,
Inching his way into her arms,
Thinking of her subtle charms,
Moving in for her embrace,
But, suddenly he sees her face,
He backs up in sudden fright,
Her face is a bright chalky white,
Her eyes are aglow in bright red,
He knows he shall soon be dead,
He looks at the girl to soon be his wife,
Her hand lifts up a shiny knife,
He feels the pain as it plunges in,
He thinks of all his guilty sins,
He died in a fresh pool of red,
No one knows the last words he said,
And that is the way the story folds,
She’ll strike again or so I’m told,
But I don’t believe it, it’s just a story
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