She grinds her hips, maybe arches her backThere's nobody there to see what she's doing thereThe guy's not there, he just doesn't existShe's looking at empty space when she's doing thisShe might walk home, she's kind of tiredOr spend some of the money on a cat she's hiredBelow a bus runs by and splashes a manHe swears at a drunkard's curse on the whole damn worldShe smiles at this and then starts to cryShe scrubs at a spot on her leg and then lets it dryAnd she's sitting on the floor with her head hung downListening to another language on TVUnaware, hair unboundWondering where her mother and father might beIf she calls, if she callsShe dreams, don't we all dreamA place, a way, a recurring themeShe remembers a time when love was aliveSomehow it gets lost in the sound of the city's morning driveLost in the sound of the city's roaring morning driveOh my godOh my godOh my godOh my god