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The Bag Lady

You see her on the street each night
Walking up and down, up and down
Pushing her cart in front of her
Sometimes she's laughing, sometimes she's crying
Sometimes she's yelling at the phantoms from her past
They taunt her with her cast-off dreams
Her hair is matted, her face is dirty
Her clothes have holes, why doesn't she fix them?
She sings a song that has no words
And cackles softly to herself
She lives in her own little world

And you turn away and shudder
Thinking to yourself
“Thank God that isn't me.”



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