Anais

In a supermarket yard, lovely face wretched, torn by pain and dark, naked not decent, the trolley for a cross, next to where they take bets, a spirit without spark, laid there to rest, its a rare clerk, not put to the test, when clearing the park, to be at their best, she works at Primark, and shops in Netto, but it was so stark, she could never forget it, it didn't soar like a lark, near to the convent, is there ever a chart, to give us a movement, bring food to no marks, each of us a vagrant.