Tuesday Song Lyric . . . from my short-lived band. I wore a miniskirt and a velvet ribbon around my throat, and my hair hung all the way to my butt in perfect little ringlets. I wasn't a very good singer, though.

She wakes up
At 9 am
Lights herself a cigarette
She's got no particular reason
To get out of bed
Again

Ohhhhh, don't you walk away
Don't you leave me standing here
Again
Ohhhh, don't you walk away
There's a change coming . . . down the road

She goes down to the corner store
Buys herself a cup of coffee there
Goes and stands on the street awhile
Waiting
For something to happen

She goes to work in the daytime
Puts in her time okay
She doesn't speak much to anyone there
She's got nothing
Much to say

She goes home in the evening time
Lights herself a cigarette
Watches the sky wind down to nothing left
Goes to sleep . . . alone . . . again

As you can see, the lyricist (the artist formerly known as me) had not much command of meter or rhyme. Or, for that matter, sense. All we really had going for us was existential angst . . . and what I occasionally think of as uncanny prescience.

The dog is barking. I must feed and walk him.