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Peddling Rose
Her name was actually Rose
And she lived up to her obligations with her dark, loose curls and her pneumatic bottom
If she shook hard enough sawdust would fall from her hair to the paint-chipped bench
that sat beneath us
Guess I'm just peddling Rose
Didn't notice her peers as I fixated on this stereotype we'd learned to understand at the dramatic denouement
Could she explain why she had this jaded disposition or had she had enough abuse for her to keep it hidden
Looking into the cloudy fumes of her Saturday night regular
I saw a glimpse of her past I couldn't sympathize with
But I felt I knew her from every pre-high school film that had ever graced my youth
Her name was actually Rose