walking through the day like hot sand, barefoot
stumbling through stirring soup for the sick independent woman
and backing up in a straight line, squeezing squeaking tires on curbs
trying not to cry
you can't expect me to sit in class with a faucet nose
and listen to whiny 19th century bitches cry about nothing, lady
when i have a to be a driver by friday and sleep off disease till saturday
times not on my side, here
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