She works her fingers to the bone
by Warren Atherton
To make a pitiful crust,
And always it is 'them' who make
While she stays bust.
Her struggle never seems to cease
Her state of pure abash,
And always so much month left
At the end of her cash!
She got herself a credit card, a flexible friend
Then picked up on a loan, the bank
They couldn't wait to lend.
She blew it all by Friday, blues hungrily fed
And didn't stop to ponder
Why her blues turned into red.
She's taken on some vices now
Her only friend the street.
With blonded tress and heightened dress
A way to make ends meet.
So give a smile for Maddie, a lady of her time,
It's her in her small corner, and I, in mine.