Lot 147

Ladies.

Gentlemen.

Those who no longer bother with either.

Lot one hundred and forty-seven.

Delivered from the outer districts—

Do we hear an opening offer?

Bring it in, let it stand in the light

Fresh from the fog, still trembling at the height

Clean little lungs, never tasted the smog

Healthy, unspoiled—a well-bred dog

No debts on its name, no marks on its skin

A blank little canvas—let the bidding begin

Five on the heart—who's got six?

Eight on the lungs—that's the fix.

Twelve on the eyes—still seeing.

Crack the chest—keep what's worth being.

One. Two. Sold.

Another soul for the gods to hold.

Servant? A waste.

Companion? A joke.

Amusement? We've had it—it's already broke.

But look at the tissue, the nerve, and the bone

This one was grown in a world of its own

They'll use it for pleasure, then pass it around

Then sell what is left when it's facedown and bound

They'll beat it for sport, then they'll carve what remains

And call it a hobby, a cure for their pains

No fog in the blood, no rot in the spine

A vintage collection—a rare, perfect wine

So we open the bidding on liver and limb

The wealthy don't care where the body has been

They only ask: is it clean? Is it new?

Can it make me feel young when I'm ninety-two?

And the answer is yes—so the gavel comes down

And the Vault takes its cut while the body leaves town

Five on the heart—who's got six?

Eight on the lungs—that's the fix.

Twelve on the eyes—still seeing.

Crack the chest—keep what's worth being.

One. Two. Sold.

Another soul for the gods to hold.

Going once—bodies are cheap, beauty's common.

Who pays the price of a woman?

Going twice—virgin tissue, rare and clean.

Body still answers. Mind still keen.

Going three—open it slow, sell it in parts.

Call it a triumph of science and arts.

Once. Twice. Sold.

Another soul for the gods to hold.

________________

🔰𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐕𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐬 𝐕𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐭𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞—𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲. 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐮𝐦 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫: 𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬. 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐬, 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬—𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐲 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥.

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐬. 𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐬—𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞.

𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐡—𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐜, 𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲'𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐬. 𝐍𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧𝐚𝐥.

𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭? 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐁𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐝𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞.

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👉For the whole storyline, I’d recommend checking out the matching playlist: https://suno.com/playlist/991bf16d-01f8-4508-a441-5e44e6c158ae