Fall in place, my soft-winged doll.
She was in a bad place, she had no job,
Crying in her kitchen, bleeding in her pot.
Colin fills her 4-ounced eyes,
Brimming with a tired heartless disguise,
Sucking on their cafe's meager-teated ma.
Fall into rest, burrowed in your voices,
Trapped in your nest, blanketed in choices.
You're a prosperous wench.
You're a lump on a bench.
You nurse a dull flacid inch.
You sold your smile
To stand beneath the shadow of a greater hand.