|
A figure by the traffic lights, |
|
face washed out in the rain, |
|
she's here once more to make her nightly |
|
stand for love and pain. |
|
Her story written on her face |
|
reading between the lines; |
|
still private in this public place |
|
she's carefully designed |
|
her open secret. |
|
Reliant on their charity |
|
to feed and clothe her kids |
|
she holds a card out to the drivers, |
|
behind it safely hidden |
|
her little sceret, |
|
for their eyes alone. |
|
And she only needs a moment of weakness, |
|
window wound down just a crack, |
|
and she'll explode with all that pent-up stuff inside her |
|
and attack |
|
with her scissors, |
|
secret scissors, |
|
sharpened scissors. |