I don't know why you chose that spot,
to put your stake of fame.
Robbed twice, mugged three times,
and earned less than mininum wage.

You put hear and soul in that little shop,
of second-hand clothes and wares.
Street-boppers passed along with bums,
none giving you a second glace.

You once wore enticing clothes to beckon people in,
and all you got were pissed-off pimps.
You tried a sandwich sign advertising 'cigarette' pipes,
and the cops gave you the once-over.

Little Susan, five foot four,
with your pink hair and country looks.
I went in one day to check on you,
and you told me it was your last day.

I can't pay the rent, you said,
with a few tears in your eyes.
You wanted to escape that little town,
and the big city didn't care.

That night, after you locked up the last time,
that little shop caught on fire.
While your rent couldn't be paid,
your insurance was still active.

While selling hand-me-downs wasn't your gig,
you got a good run out of it.
While she paid $10,000 to run that store,
she got $250,000 for fire damages.

12/27/2003

Posted on 12/27/2003
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