Her eyes,
Melting away,
Into sadness,
Into decay,
People who,
Describe her look,
May say she's undecided,
But not a crook,
Why make teachers,
Teach pigs,
Who sit in bleachers,
And eat the hens,
Make the marker swing back and forth,
Throught the church bells,
And through the solemn doors,
Cringe and weep,
Pray and moan,
But dare not make a peep,
For she is alone,
Roll from bed,
and get dressed to meet the dead,
Many find her,
By following false lips,
By making poor souls,
Into furs,
Heeding the doorway,
Not stopping at the call,
Fighting the sore ways,
Of who are present and who are gone,
Takiong the pages,
and turning talent into trade,
How she manages?
How she begins?
Question upon answer,
Answer upon question,
Being an artist; a dancer,
Her future's decided,
She is not a crook.