She was only eighteen. The streets made her mean.
She looked like a bucket of bones.
The street people say she was'nt always this way.
She came from a happy home.
The hump on her back said she did too much crack.
Her brain was melting away.
Wherever she'd been, that toothless grin,
Told me she was here to stay.
She'd been married they say, but her man went away.
To die over there in the sand.
He'd never come back, so she turned to crack.
A friend to hold her hand.
Now she sits in the dirt. She can't even flirt,
With the Johns as they walk by.
As I take her hand, she can't even stand,
Because she's too damned high.
So why do I care? You see I've been there.
I've walked these streets before.
In the end, you see, she's a lot like me.
Another casualty of war.