There’s no pink left in her mouth.
You couldn’t reach down and swallow
no mint if you tried and everything
on her frame is called dressing down.
Torn and brown, pale, too loose.
She ain’t even gotta narrow smile,
a half moon, somethin to grab
when you turn the bend.
There’s no pink left in her mouth.
She’s got nothin sweet hiding
or pullin at her sides.