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She sits in the sunlight each morning |
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And waits for her memory to fade |
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If she tells you she's got a messiah |
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It's one that she's already made |
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She's no longer taking shortcuts |
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In her village of Rome |
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And nobody's home |
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By the time that the summer is over |
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She's nowhere to be seen |
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She smiles and looks slightly frightened |
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As you walk past she wants to cry |
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The daffodils bloom in the garden |
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Her head is buttered and fried |
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On a good day the great was seen clearly |
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On a bad she's hardly aware |
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And waits for the reaper to bear |
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Her doormat is left propped up |
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Since Wednesday when they came to clean |
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Her apartment has been re-vacated |
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Perhaps she is now in a home |
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Or perhaps she is just bone |
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Or perhaps she is just bone |
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Or perhaps she is just bone |
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Just bone |
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Just bone |
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Just bone |
|
Just bone |
