Milly

Is this what prison's for, to drink illicit sisters' whisky, on your own, but in a daily reality, we work this territory, wishing we were free, no one really gets over, all the time saying please, being on your Jack Jones, you look at deserted trees, feel your swollen feet, rain falls across the sea, in hushed magenta tones, behind a troubled serendipity, you speak like a drone, they say you've been honed, to numb away the pity, a lovers' voice tolls, do this for me !!