She lives in the polarized glare of the camera.
She's got lightshows goin' through her hair.
She's got friends to die for and they're all dead now.
She's coloring the fringes of this place,
Hanging her head low for the spotlight.
Golden curls go orange under the Sicilian sun
Where working is an aspiration,
Sweating's a work of art,
And art is worth the sweat and work.
She knows it's easier to write about paradise
When you live in one.
She still walks in the vague lights
She still waits in the bland contrast
She's still there for it all.
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