There’s a woman in Minneapolis
Scraping for pop cans on the roadside.
Her back aches; her eyes can’t see a foot past.
“Oh, Jesus,” she cries. “Do I deserve this?”
She’s carrying pearls on her neck
And a black lace undergarment
But passerbys see them not.
No, there’s a woman in Minneapolis,
Creeping in the alleyway.
Round-a-bout -- people spiritless these days.
Her neck can’t get dirtier with the grime;
Toes frozen to each other, stationary in the boot.
Round-a-bout -- TFM 937 coming this way.
There’s a woman in Minneapolis
Opening her mouth to scream
With hope in her eyes and a beating heart.
She’s falling through the air --
Stockings ripped thrice already.
There’s a woman in Minneapolis
On the roadside.