It's the red on my lip
And the twenty dollar tip.
Umbrellas in my pockets
Child dreams of blasting rockets.

And still they launch.

It's the bile in my throat
And it's everything she wrote.
Your sweet naivity
Of baby blue and gold nativities.

And still they launch.

Will it take a body bag to believe me?
Will it take nothingness to relieve me?

(She's sweating in the middle of a cold night
Her grandmama says "it's not good, it's not right.")