pimp

He held it over his head
that ol' book with her worn out pages
still he preach
in his finest megaphone voice
the judgement he no longer believes
She rests in the worst motels
too many men have left their fingerprints
on her skin
He, the pimp of that whorish bible
just another Messiah rolling down interstate 80
lonely like the distance of the highway
no lightning-bolts, no desire
but at every vacancy sign
those flickering neon beacons
She waits
for the man to lose his faith