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Rags to Wretched
Skeletal Heels came clacking down the cobblestone
A snakeskin dress wrapped right around her hour glass
She laid hands on a touchtone telephone
Chatting me up her voice chocked full of sass
All the while, manipulating knobs on a nine volt radio,
She's hot and heavy looking for her station,
Destinies a dame
We've no manner of luck
stuck in this game,
It's all about what you got and how you flaunt it,
If I were ever so lucky to have crossed her path
I'd have to count myself cursed to have traipsed that dirt,
I've no pockets of cash,
I've no ivory walls,
I've got a dozen problems
I recount them and collect them all,
Wrought with my station
when she crept across the concrete
trailed by the doom of perfume,
Maybe we'll meet again soon
I won't get my hopes up
