Chelsea

In a supermarket yard, her lovely face crossed, torn by pain and dark, naked uncovered yet, her trolley for a host, to where they lay bets, a spirit without a spark, laid out here in frost, its a rare clerk, not put to the test, when clearing up the cost, smiles at their best, she also works at Primark, and shops at Hugo Boss, the contrast's too stark, who could ever forget, what hurts the most, death so close to a convent, if there's ever a chart, to work out our trust, bring food to no lost, no one's beneath us.