she's wearing her birthday dress from six years ago,
princess skirt riding high on her thighs, and it makes her feel like
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
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.