With no intentions of following the way of the world.
She's a girl who sits with cigarette flies,
And corn flake lies,
Under close marmalade skies.
She's a motor running high,
With pit stop cries,
Who hangs herself, by a thread of a knife.
She's an angel, when the devil's the sky,
She a seraphin among the fires,
She's a known right, a stone fight,
When all I can see is to hide.
