Monica Two

In a supermarket yard, her lovely face etched, by rain and dark, worn not defeated, the trolley she leans across, where they take bets, a spirit brims with spark, put 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 Waitrose, and shops in Netto, but life is so stark, she can never forget them, they don’t soar like larks, precise in their movement, says if there’s a chart, to make our corrections, give food to no marks, we are all vagrants.