Cut off blue jeans,
with white strings,
like frayed dreams,
in sunlight beams.

Visions of beauty, with each sway,
watching men sigh and bow and pray,
thanking God for fallen angels
and for their curves and their angles.

But she walks on, with nary a look,
none of these guys, can read her book,
her pages are closed, but admire the cover,
the good stuff is saved only for her lover.

The trail of tears she left behind,
brings the waiter all the time,
she tries to stop the cries and whelps,
her t-shirt reads, whiskey helps.