The oldest profession is the key to my freedom.

The final fight,
Will be dirty.
I suspect i’ll sell my soul,
To reach my goal.
I don’t have strength,
Or weapons of destruction.
My body,
I will sell it, to you, the evil black hole of despair,
Whilst i am under construction, i no longer care.
It is a vessel of means.
The oldest profession known to man,
Will be the reason that i can.
I’ll sell my soul,
To reach my goal.
I’ll cover it in white, light,
To protect it through the night.
I’ll use it as currency,
An exchange of sorts,
To free up my time,
I’ll do this crime.