Ain't nobody got the time for dreams,
Ain't nobody got the money for them.
Time flies, cherie!
You outgrow fantasies like you do your clothes.
Kick that rusty, discarded tin
And imagine yourself playing croquet
With the noveau rich.
That is saving grace, cherie!
When they pass by the streets,
curtsy.
It is not in your place to question why
They sit in the carriage
While you clean the wheels.
Let your tired, dirty feet twirl around
On our pathetic hall room floor.
Imagine every tatter on your dress
To be a sequin or applique design.
That pathetic head-rag you wear, my child
Is like the hat that aristocrats wear.
The streets are your home, cherie.
The tavern your newspaper.
Think on your feet,
Don't act by your heart.
Watch them as they throw away
the plates of food
That deserve to find a way
through your gullet.
This is who you are, cherie.
A daughter of the streets.
Bite the dust
Swallow your pain.
For if you talk,
Nobody listens.
If you run,
Nobody follows you around.
