Shame

Vicky's lying wild with her hands between her thighs,
I'll say don't worry baby, we're gonna be just fine.
Used to live in the city before she found that pretty
kids play with broken toys and blonde-haired boys.

Vicky babe, come home, says her mother on her throne,
but by then her daughter's grown
and she's just passing round her smiles.
Just another kooky thing to get high off.

Her friends lift up their eyes
and judge her as she tries
to measure the downward capacity of spirals
and how to flat-line without dying.

And she thinks that ruts are for those without imagination
and for those who can't appreciate the temptation in this prickly nation,
Stationed in life to be back-seated,
Dated and understated without a twist of
Bottlecap understanding.

She lands heavy with both feet
on the ground, and the dust that rises sends them blindly
crying to their corners.
She wears things that fit her slim,
and lie mostly flat on heavenly skin,
but pucker in the most perfect of places.

And some would shame her to be out at night,
some sad, noctural songbird.
As if she might be cheapened by a lack of sunlight
or exoticised by a fearful lack of brightness.

I guess the truth is she truly isn't catchable,
that beautiful eye-snatcher.
And while her friends get moneyed and milked
of their enthusiam, she continues to believe that optimism
isn't a glass half-full but rather
waiting to be filled.

Perhaps, she sometimes thinks,
the people to whom she used to offer smiles
spent their childhood growing old,
while she wasted time,
with her hands between her thighs.