Chloé

In a supermarket yard, her lovely face stretched, washed by rain and dark, shining and decent, the trolleys are fetched, where the bums frequent, she walks across, where they make bets, a spirit of great spark, comes here to to assess, it's a rare frequence, not put to the test, when clearing this park, to be at her best, she shops at The Ark, but'll never forget them, life bursts with interest, unlike polished gems, the hymn of all vagrants.