In public she'd walk, only doing her worst
people cracked jokes, I repaired her thirst
but she'd get kicked out, for there was little doubt
she was some sort of witch whom herself had been cursed

her face was a mess, painted fiery red
she was haggard and wasted, seemingly dead
I wondered what tragedy had made her that way
when she told me I'd best watch my head

from that tired place I did take my leave
the three years I'd been there held little for me
most days I would finish my shift feeling grieved
by the ominous words that she spoke to me

Shirley, you strange soul, your darkness was deep
your shadow was the only friend that you'd keep
I wonder what mad tales about you were spun
from your own reflection in mirrors you'd run