All for the want of a little hair dye

There was such a woman could be see as fair
if not be judged by things to wear.
Draped down her back her straw blonde hair
but at the top there is black root,
not upstaged by over knee boot.
You can tell she's used to cars that hoot.
Skirt hitched up high,
legs reach the sky,
many stares from passers by.
Long, blood red nails,
painted while riding the rails.
She's accustomed to no end of males.
Part of her occupation.
No thought of her final destination.
Her next man is waiting at the station.
Daintily she flicks off an end of ash,
blood shot eyes suggest it's hash.
I'm thinking now not fair but trash.
I wonder if she died today,
if she'd be left there where she lay,
if she has friends but those who pay?
How did such a girl end up here?
Losing all that she held dear.
Each night she sleeps with many a tear
in the corner of her eye.
She'll not tell what makes her cry.
And all for the want of a little hair dye.