Zeela

Birds can't start their tune, the moon is in her wake, she asks if i like the blues, sat in bars making bets, she sits with her tiny frame, this is how good it gets, like a match stick in ruins, her eyes fill with shame, in this her office room, she doesn't pay rent, it's just a game, she'll go and live in a tent, a dingy drop a cracked spoon, she asks if i'm insane, to sit in this saloon, she knows what it is to lose, but comes back again and again, there isn't much to choose, to her it's all the same.