she's wearing her birthday dress from six years ago,
princess skirt riding high on her thighs, and it makes her feel like
she's fly-fly-flying
they let her into the club because she has hips like an Arabian dancer
and the key around her neck accentuates her eyes in an I've-got-a-secret
way. She asks for vodka with her breasts, and the barman tips a couple of
winks-worth into her frosted glass of coca cola.
she's as sweet sweet sixteen as her Cleopatra hair, half-combed, half-all over the place
and three quarters fall-in-love-with-me.
she tells all sorts of lies with her hands but if you look at the corners of
her mouth, they're as doll-like as her cherub cheeks, so cutting in the
disco lights.
nobody asks her to dance because she looks so perfectly illegal – pretty little misfit
girl and her shoplifted lace,

her boots as patent black as her dress is silver good.