| Her skin was darker than ashes
|
| And she had something to say
|
| Bout being naked to the elements
|
| At the end of yet another day
|
| And the rain on her back that continued to fall
|
| From the bruise of her lips
|
| Swollen, fragile, and small
|
| And the bills that you paid with were worth nothing at all
|
| A lost foreign currency
|
| Multi-coloured, barely reputable
|
| Like the grasses that blew in the warm summer breeze
|
| Well she offered you this to do as you pleased
|
| And where is the poetry?
|
| Didn’t she promise us poetry?
|
| The redwoods, the deserts, the tropical ease
|
| The swamps and the prairie dogs, the Joshua trees
|
| The long straight highways from dirt road to tar
|
| Hitching your wheels to truck, bus, or car
|
| And the lives that you hold in the palm of your hand
|
| You toss them aside small and damn near unbreakable
|
| You drank all the water and you pissed yourself dry
|
| Then you fell to your knees and proceeded to cry |