TACEANT COLLOQUIA EFFUGIAT RISUS HIC LOCUS EST UBI MORS GAUDET SUCCURERE VITAE
She was just a little girl, and she tried to make the scene, but they threw her down and she died — broken on the pavement, naked and alone, with her beads around her neck.
She had these amber beads, and she wanted to “make the scene,” but it was the wrong scene and the wrong time and nobody loved her, and nobody cared, and she died there, on Mott Street, with her beads around her neck.
From a little shabby house near a cornfield in Ohio with a barn and a horse that died and a couple of old trucks out back — She wanted to be “where it's at.” She was only playing a game; they buried her three weeks ago — she would have been fourteen today.
It was a hot night in July when they hitchhiked to New York. In Washington Square Park everybody was making it even the mosquitoes were making it and they bit her as she slept. But she wanted “kicks,” so she went off with two men. And they found her, broken on the stone, with her beads around her neck.
Her parents, they worked hard, and they ate their bitter bread; her father, he drank and he fought — he'd been in trouble with a girl and was in jail last year. It broke him, too. “I felt like I just got picked up and dropped, broke like a glass.”
They buried her three weeks ago; and Death cannot rejoice that she made his scene, — for she was just a little girl, and they broke her and she died with her beads around her neck.