She has stormy eyes. She yawns wide. Her vision's wet and blurry. The scattered dry ground Is pinned down by expanding puddles. Lonely nights her lamps light And she swears this place looks like A New England Village. The gangs on both sides of the street Don't know about the others. When she hollers hip jokes They throw signals at the others. She used to have reason to smile. Now she doesn't want to. All of this from the view of a rented-out room. She has flashbacks, flying fast, fast-forward.