That boy she hauls around,
they say he has 'bad news'
tattooed over his face
which is technically incorrect;
it says hellraiser
and for god sakes its on his arm.
She'll tell you it's just for show.
(but not that it was her idea)
She shows him off in trophy-fasion;
he carries himself more like
a late-night movie
shoved in the spotlight,
mean and uneasy,
punch-dazed prizeless fighter
with pennyroll knuckles clenching tight.
It's not what it looks like;
lost lonely at the high end of town
he's just not entirely certain anymore
if he is bigger than the watchdogs
Awkward on her arm.
He cleans up dirtier than she
blue collars sweat-yellowed,
degrading suits and ties in his damaged slouch
while she lends tubetops royal flair.
You'd call a lesser woman trampy
in the same set of 'why bother' denims
but no one dares.
Talk about a fashion faux pas;
he is proof she can't accessorize.
'He doesn't drink', she'll tell you,
on her seventh glass of champagne,
which is high-class, not a problem,
'and he works hard, so that's all right.'
She thinks it's quaint and
kind of daring, the idea of a
(scratch) honest (scratch)