i get forgetful but it's not because of my tired eyes
i get dressed up like a white sheet, classic style
a hand-woven net and a five am morning chirp
when do i cross this land onto the next
what will become of the likely whores
wonder what's left?
a plate.
a meat.
a crumb.
a sore thumb.
maybe i don't want what's next
maybe i want to remain the same in the same white sheet
no fixed address and no lemon cake zest
i long for more but i'm happy and content
i'm a blonde whore, don't hand me what's coming next.
