What a beautiful blossoming plant
Having a perfect curl hiding one side of her eye
All she hears is the lover's chant
Waiting for compassion to walk by
Back up against the hall
Feet twiddeling onthe infected grounds
At a dance in the middle of fall
Listening to the wondering sounds
Why does it always seem to be this way
That only the "hott" ones have dates
They're blind to the creatures of day
Only the provacative have mates
Would boys still love them in the morning
Or would they think they have the power
To decide who gives the warning
Never noticing the wall-flower