Well,
she married a millionaire by the time she was 17.
But she soon got tired of competing with the bourgeoisie.
For her 21st birthday,
he bought her a French resort.
The very next day,
she spent in the end of his court.
Now she's living like a queen in her dirty blue jeans.
She started hanging out with a shady mob,
who always seemed to have lots of money,
but
none of them ever had jobs.
She only read about drugs in the magazines.
Once she got a taste of this expensive cuisine,
she had to sell most everything except to
wear her dirty blue jeans.
Right on.
The center of some bar she'd never been before,
was the only place that time of the day she
could score.
The cots busted in a cotter trying to leave,
with five grams of smack stuffed
up inside a sleeve,
and an ounce of mescaline in her dirty blue jeans.
There's more.
Six months at the clinic like some derelict drunk,
a thousand bucks a day to get her off that junk.
Spent all the cash that she'd won on the divorce,
but I guess she could always marry another rich
boy of course.
Now she's living real clean in her dirty blue jeans.
I swear it's true.
Raro.
Okay, that's all right.