Of course, we had to go there, through the peeling hot paths of June
The flickering glitter of hotheaded you, and me – your little old Polly
Under the dust we found some things; jars,beads and rings
Oh you and your towheaded softheaded sunbeaded head
Me, with my henna red hair and my signature polka dot brolly.
Under the sky, I knew I would not last, wilting and shifting
Like a burned out poppy, eating a sandwich of day old bread
Warm coke, warm hands- you were far too demanding
I was never a hothearted girl, just a lost sad lass
Even the picnic was folly.