She dropped out of life with sublime veneration,
Hasn't washed her hair in nearly three weeks,
She'd make a good wife, but she won't let no one near her,
Stares at the gutter like a porcelain doll.
You can hear her shadow cry,
She's dead while she's still alive,
And all that she sees is a street of no hope.
She conceals her past in a can of malt liquor,
Spilling her soul concrete of sin,
The maker of myth, the inveterate poet,
Echoes of pride from a job left undone.
In the silent space within, the thorns of truth begin,
Looking for a long lost friend on the street of no hope.
And, through the veil of pain, she must somehow rise again and dust off the dirt from the street of no hope.
