Bill Kelly

Bill Kelly


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Written By: BillKelly

Bill Kelly © 05

She sits at the picnic with nothing to say
And it looks like she’s made out of paper Mache
With painted on eyebrows that melt in the rain
On the little lost girl that lives down the lane

Where cowboys and Indians play on beat up old cars
With short cuts and bad seeds that only weeds in your heart

Seraphima the bands gonna start
You got all that free time on your dance card
Seraphima buckle your shoe
Honey are those boys bothering you

It gets dark so early and it’s cold on the clay
A five o’clock is blowing away
The leaves still look pretty where he’s holding her down
And a stop light is blinking in the center of town

Blue eyes that glow like a pair of old TV’s
Trying to find a channel to someplace where she’d rather be


There’s blood on her ankle and cum on her lace
And dear father Hanley is petting her face
Run along Seraphima it’s starting to snow
Buckle your shoe no one must know

Time passes by like the cars that roll down her lane
And a scar turns purple when ever it’s about to rain