Oh,
oh,
oh, oh.
It's raining all day.
She loves to be one of the girls.
She lives in the place at the side of
our lives where nothing is ever straight.
She turns herself around and she smiles and she says,
this is it,
that's the end of the
joke.
And loses herself in her dreaming and sleep
and her lover's walking through in that coat.
Isn't she pretty in pain?
Isn't she pretty in pain?
Isn't she?
All of the lovers all talk of the notes
and the flowers that they never spent.
Wasn't she easy?
And isn't she pretty in pain?
The one who insists he was first in the
line is the last to remember her name.
He's walking around in this dress that she wore.
She is gone, but the jokes the same.
Isn't she pretty
in pain?
Isn't she pretty in pain?
Isn't she?
Caroline talks to you softly,
saying,
she said,
I love you and too much.
She doesn't have anything you want to feel.
Well,
nothing you can touch.
She waves.
She buttons her shirt.
The traffic is waiting outside.
She hands you this coat.
She gives you her clothes.
He's gone, but we lie.
Pretty in pain.
Isn't she?
Pretty in pain.
Isn't she?
The words are wanting for him inside her bottled head.
She blows them out into the air and watches how they spread.
They're filling up a cloud of sweet and sweet things of greed.
But she must write them sweet and somehow get them all to leave.
She's writing written sentences on flower-painted walls.
The tell-all story silenced on a time-limited scrawl.
She bites her lip.
She rubs along her teeth with her
sharp tongue and sings herself a song,
used to comfort men so young.
She throws her head far backwards and she forces out a laugh and
watches her words tingle till her shoulder gives way to her breath.
And then she bares her flashing teeth
in front of her throat of thrall,
but with her words so desperately,
they become a aching awe.