There is a lady like a crayon and she's melting in the rain
She's moldy yellow, streaked and mellow,
drifting down the drain.
But as her fattened thigh hits tide,
she pulls up from the gutter
Out she gets a cigarette,
and a lighter that just sputters.
Standing sadly, dank and dreary,
she flicks her bic again,
a yellow candle without flame,
a waxy tower of chins.
With luck a tiny fire sprite
wakes up to light her smoke,
and there the crayon lady stands
like slimy, shaky yolk.
She covers up her cigarette and forgets about herself,
Her thin hair runs in gross grey lines
down her bosomed shelf.
Like a lemon with grey mold on top
she teeters to and fro,
disgusting people passing by,
with her extra citron growth.
But the lady takes no notice for
She's got a game to play;
to finish off her cigarette
before she melts away.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC
There is a lady like a crayon and she's melting in the rain
She's moldy yellow, streaked and mellow,
drifting down the drain.
But as her fattened thigh hits tide,
she pulls up from the gutter
Out she gets a cigarette,
and a lighter that just sputters.
Standing sadly, dank and dreary,
she flicks her bic again,
a yellow candle without flame,
a waxy tower of chins.
With luck a tiny fire sprite
wakes up to light her smoke,
and there the crayon lady stands
like slimy, shaky yolk.
She covers up her cigarette and forgets about herself,
Her thin hair runs in gross grey lines
down her bosomed shelf.
Like a lemon with grey mold on top
she teeters to and fro,
disgusting people passing by,
with her extra citron growth.
But the lady takes no notice for
She's got a game to play;
to finish off her cigarette
before she melts away.
