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And the rain stains the windows like an inkblot of hope,
she plucks the poppies 'till there's nothing to grope.
While the voices in her head sing her to sleep,
she prays that she'll find a drug that'll take her for keeps.

Promises of missed calls and an eviction notice,
the girl can only dream of replies, instead of blind solace.
Yet another day to the angel in Chucks,
she keeps theft alive to save a couple bucks.

The girl's an urban angel, in a devil ridden town,
her halo's slowly chipping, and her wings are turning brown.
Her sunshine soaked locks smell of cigarette smoke,
but it doesn't phase her when she's cracking a joke.

To have or to have not, she questions herself,
she hears the phone ringing on her cardboard bookshelf.
She ignores the cries of the rotary phone,
as a tear signifies another night all alone.

Desperate desires to cast the first stone,
to set the fears aside and keep her eye on the phone.
And as the bays of Fremont set the sun on the girl,
the soup kitchen closes shop and waves goodbye to the world.