Ridiculous, how she sits at the corner,
You wouldn't notice her,She's dark as the nights;
She has been holding on to her glass,
Probably it's the champagne, she's afraid, will run out,
And like it always happens, no one will buy her some drink,
But only those who desire to tear her down.

I turn on the radio,
And its her voice in my mind,
She talks of the number of times,she's been broken down,
Torn apart and stumped on,
She wonders why, she has always been chosen last,
And why the precision of frustration.

Her heart, a quiver,
I guess she's glued to her glass,
To conceal the lances in her heart,
I turn the volume on,
And this time round,
She hates herself,
But afraid not to live.

She masks up every time, I hit her up,
I can tell from the hypocritical glare,
The world has taught her to eat up her grief,
And break glasses in her room,
I wonder what she does in the dark corner of the pub,
I guess it's worse, when she gets to the yard On a Monday.