Monica Two

In a supermarket yard, her lovely face stretched, torn by rain and dark, shining not decent, the trolley leans across, where they take bets, a spirit without a spark, laid there to rest, it's a rare clerk, not put to the test, when clearing this park, to be at their best, she works at Primark, and shops in Netto, but life is so stark, she can never forget them, they didn't soar like larks, near to the convent, if there’s ever a chart, to give us correction, bring food to no marks, we are all vagrants.