Wyona

She prays a dawn novena, and worries about her feet, wondering who will see her, if love's a trick to hold, not knowing her own to keep, she's ready to go cold, every tune sounds sweeter, hazy bars fuel her conceit, a woodyards blonde singer, won't do what she's told, more than any feeling, dancing swells her toes, men rise up to greet her, when evening turns green, her only prayer is please, perhaps a communion bolt, mask s a careful retreat, she'll rescue any joke, that simulates her dream.