She keeps her albums in a cardboard box and her singles are left on the floor.

Maybe she’s a girl that doesn’t care but then, she always brushes her hair.

Her bedroom is full of things in carrier bags and empty cardboard boxes.

There’s a bank statement on the side from nineteen eighty five under a TV guide.

In the hallway there’s junk mail and unopened letters and the cupboard door needs fixing.

Someone’s at the door but she can’t hear, the music is playing too loud.

She talks like a chatterbox though she’s got nothing to say but a jumble of words keep coming.

She has a gleam in her eye and a frown on her face but nothing that will stop her talking.

The words keep coming at me and I don’t understand her questions.

But questions and answers are what she was born for

And I’m just her prisoner of war. . .