I met a woman at the laundromat, six-foot tall in her flats. She bore the scent of a bachelor's degree, class C cigarettes and warm whiskey--
oh no, here I go, down to the river to cleanse my soul.
"My name is Tangerine," she splintered, 75 cents and a steady hand remembered. I've got an incessant woman miles away, but your proximity begs me to stay.
oh no, here I go, down to the river to cleanse my soul.
Tangerine had two crooked teeth, a penchant for Plato seeped. She was a batshit woman, a bona fide tombstone, an endless corridor, and a paper bag dream.
oh no, here I go, down to the river to cleanse my soul.